Giving Notice
by dontgiveahoot
Summary: A look at the actions of a main character from the point of view of other characters. When death rocks Hogwarts, you'd be surprised who's affected. Chapter Twelve: Rosemary Sprout tends to her garden, the students - and the other professors
1. Regards, Argus Filch

GIVING NOTICE.

Fandom: Harry Potter 

Category: Angst/POV (most of it is in POV, anyway)

Rating: PG or PG-13, I guess. Filch is a bitter old man with no reason to mind his language. 

Pairing: Harry/?? 

Warnings: Deathfic

Author's notes - The pairing is completely up to the reader to decide. It might be a slash pairing, a het pairing, unrequited love, whatever. It's really only very lightly implied.

************************

The bird keened, a mournful sound in the normally bright office. Slowly, the white-bearded man turned his head to look at the phoenix, for once looking very, very old. He blinked when he saw what had caused Fawkes to cry out.

An owl.

One of the school owls, in fact - an old, tired-looking creature that could no longer manage long distances, and was restricted to inter-castle deliveries.

But why send an owl, rather than contact him via fireplace, or come in person? Curiously, he lifted the letter. The envelope was grubby and crinkled, and the handwriting spidery and scrawled, as bitter and unpleasant to look at as its owner. Only one person in the castle took such perverse pride in being so outstandingly unbearable.

A man unfortunate enough to be trapped his entire life in a magical world without the magic that should have been his by blood right. The caretaker. Argus Filch.

Opening the envelope, Dumbledore sat as he adjusted his glasses, unfolded the scrunched-looking parchment inside, and began to read.

__

Dear Professor Dumbledore and staff.

This letter is to inform you all that Mrs Norris and I will be leaving this castle and the job we were hired for as soon as is possible. On a professional note, I would like to thank some of the staff for the leeway they allowed me in my job to put some fright into those little turds, who don't even seem to care that they've got the chance of a lifetime just to study and HAVE their magic, the ungrateful wretches. I have also left all my notes for the benefit of the next caretaker. I don't care if those Weasley twins ARE halfway through their last year, they'll find a way to make trouble. And Peeves. Because Peeves will always be here. Curse him. 

On a slightly more personal note, I would like to point out that throughout this entire bloody job, of all the Ten Thousand Commandments of keeping this rotten place somewhat presentable, there was one commandment that was always number one, and never, ever varied.

Never. Trust. Peeves.

And I never did, neither. Peeves managed to trick me lots of times, he did. Guess he thought it was funny. Well ha bloody ha. 

"Filch, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought! Wandering around here when some ickle first-years are out of bed and running around near the Potions classrooms! Oooh, Professor Snape'll be mad at YOU!"

Can't have that, can we? Off I go, hurrying along - and off I go arse over tip, because Peeves went and put oil all over the floor right outside Snape's private chambers on the way to the Potions class. Of course, the professor comes hurrying out to see what made such a crash... well, Peeves was right about one thing. He wasn't one bit pleased.

I took it out on that scrawny Potter boy for tracking mud in after his Quidditch practice. Most of the brats would've glared at me and complained, "It's just a little mud, what's the harm in it?" Normally, so would Potter, come to think of it, for bringing him down after his happy little Quidditch pick-me-up. But this time he just looked at me, all empty-like, and spooked me out so much I doubled his detention.

Wish I hadn't now. 

"Filch, you ought to run quick, you ought! There's a student who's gone and slipped on a puddle of water that Moaning Myrtle made in the girl's toilets! Looks like she's cracked her head on the sink, 'cause she isn't moving!"

Well, I was pretty sure he was lying - but what if some silly girl really had split her head open? I couldn't take the chance. So off I went. How was I supposed to know that since her own private toilet wasn't working, Professor McGonagall had to go pee somewhere else? Begging your pardon for that night, McGonagall ma'am. Didn't mean to see you without your... ah, moving on.

So anyway, when Peeves came to me two nights ago, babbling something about a student in some classroom - well, would you have believed him? Course not. I didn't neither.

Didn't believe him the second time, fifteen minutes later.

Nor the third, ten minutes after that.

Wasn't till the fourth time that I realised that Peeves usually gave up on a joke if it didn't work, and he didn't disappear and come back, as if he were going between two places at once. 

Wasn't till the fourth time I realised that it was the first time I'd seen Peeves without that rotten smirk of his, without the Bloody Baron being around to shut him up.

Wasn't till the fourth time that I realised that he meant it.

So off I go, swearing to him all the way that I'd personally find a way to exorcise him, Dumbledore or no (begging your pardon Headmaster sir) if this was a joke. I told him that I didn't expect it was as bad as he made out, I didn't expect that we'd be needing more than a lovely Muggle invention called a Band-Aid. Try 'em sometime, they work.

And I was right. I didn't expect it was as bad as he said.

I didn't expect to see a kid hanging from the ceiling.

It was one of those things you see and you can't move for a full minute. There was some sort of material holding him up all right, I could see it was yanked all taut, but round the rafter and round his neck, there was nothing. Nothing you could see, anyway. I remember when that boy's father was here at Hogwarts... wonder what he'd say if he knew what his son used his Invisibility Cloak for? 

His eyes were the worst, though. Mainly 'cause they were the same as when I told him off for the mud. Just as empty, just as sad. Still wearing his glasses. They were all crusted with salt. Like he cried a long time ago, and didn't bother wiping them since.

I know I scare the brats a lot with talk of the 'old punishments', but I do know actual facts about those punishments. And one of them is this - if they're executing a light, skinny person by hanging, they tie weights to their feet so that the sudden drop will break their neck. A fast, painless death. Otherwise they just end up slowly choking to death. 

Funny. You'd think that with the weight of the world on this kid's shoulders, it would have shifted to his ankles, had at least that much mercy. 

You know the rest, I guess. I got him down, got him to the Hospital Wing. But it was too late. Beyond help, Pomfrey wailed, between her tears. There might have been a chance he'd have lived, if she'd been able to get to him just five minutes earlier, she wailed.

Just five minutes...

God knows I never thought I'd see the day that I was wishing I'd listened to Peeves.

Curse that poltergeist, anyway. Why SHOULD I have believed him? The Ghost Who Cried Wolf.

The Boy Who Died Because The Ghost Cried Wolf. 

And now the school's in shock and the oh-so-brave Gryffindors are wailing like babies. And his two best friends, the youngest Weasley boy and the frizzy-haired girl, well, they're hurting more than anyone. Not more than the boy though. I ask you, all these first-years that drooled over him, the ones he called friends, those he called family, and the one he simply referred to as 'beloved' in that pathetic little note clutched in his hand... where were they when he went to that dirty old classroom? Fat lot of good their tears will do him now. 

That boy handed in his notice to get away from this place. And so am I. 

After all, any school, wizard or Muggle, needs a janitor. For once in my life, I'm almost glad that I'm a Squib.

Better to be expected to be a caretaker than a Saviour. At least I can go where I like to clean without anyone but Mrs Norris expecting anything from me.

Regards, Argus Filch.

END.

************************

More Author's Notes: Sorry about this depressing piece, but there had been so many interesting Filch POV fics lately, I wanted to add one of my own - I don't think I did it justice, though. Should I do more on this theme - perhaps the same event or its aftermath in the POV of Peeves himself? A proper Dumbledore POV instead of just the few paragraphs I used to set this piece up with? Ron's POV? Hermione's? Malfoy? Snape? Sirius? Someone else? Do let me know. I love feedback, especially constructive crit and suggestions.

************************


	2. Peeved Off

PEEVED OFF.

See chapter one, "Regards, Argus Filch" for any warnings. This is the same thing from Peeves' POV.

****************

Hogwarts was always boring. And I do mean always, all through my existence here. Living, dead, it didn't matter, it was boring as all hell. Even the other ghosts were boring - I mean, Sir Nearly-Headless Nick whinging on and on because he couldn't join the Headless Hunt, every year without fail. Bor-ing!

Well, I had to at least try and make things interesting, didn't I? Wouldn't have been able to take it, otherwise. Sure, everyone used to tell me back when I was alive that my sense of humour was 'juvenile' and 'toilet humour' or 'just plain nasty, can't you stow it for once?' 

Well actually no I can't, so nyah!

Well, no, I could... but I won't. So nyah nyah nyah!

It's always so much fun to torment people - especially the little first-years who haven't gotten used to me yet, or the old farts on the staff who are so full of themselves and their stupid old 'dignity'. And Filch.

It's going to be really REALLY boring now Filch is going. I even asked him to stay - but of course he won't. I guess I don't blame him. Not for _that_, anyway. STUPID old Filch! STUBBORN old Filch! Rotten old Filch, knew me too well.

Why couldn't I have found at least _one_ first-year out of bed that night?

~*~*~*~*~*~

It started off pretty normal, you know. Filch was off in one end of the castle somewhere, oozing along like a great slug and that fuzzy hairball at his side. I, naturally, was having lots of fun being just a few corridors away - close enough for him to hear me, but too far away for him to catch me. Pretty normal night, and shaping up to be a fun one, yes it was.

And then I noticed it. 

Someone was walking down the corridor. Someone _invisible_.

Now, when that Invisibility Cloak first came back to Hogwarts, I wasn't ready for it. I didn't think that potty little Potter would end up having his dad's Invisibility Cloak. He even tricked me once into thinking that he was the Bloody Baron, of all people, back when he was just a first-year!

And there was no way I was ever, EVER going to forget that. Nor forgive it! A _first-year student_, an ickle _firstie_, tricking _Peeves_! I was just lucky that part of the little escapade was forgotten by what the three of them did after they got to the third floor, or else Nearly-Brainless Nick would have never let me live it down. 

So I made it a point to watch out for Potty and his two friends whenever I got the chance. You know, the boy with flaming red hair and freckles and the bushy-haired girl with huge front teeth and disgustingly round cheeks. Fire-Head and Frizz-Head. Weasel Spawn and Beaver Teeth. Freckle Face and Chipmunk Cheeks. 

It was lots of fun, especially the next year. We had that trouble with the basilisk - again - and everyone thought Potty Potter was doing it, of all people. Ha! They might as well have accused Moaning Myrtle, the stupid weepy sod. **_Peeves_** knew perfectly well it was a basilisk, had to be, but nobody asked me, did they? And if they didn't think enough of me to ask, well then, who was I to deny them the fun of looking and watching and being paranoid?

I even made up this fantastic little song, right on the spot - and put it in a dance routine later. It was really good.

__

Oh Potter, you rotter, oh what have you done; You're killing off students, you think it's good fun...

... well, **_I_** thought it was good, anyway. 

Anyways, I knew it was him **_this_** time, wasn't going to be tricked again. But just the fact that he was alone was pretty interesting - where were Weasel and Beaver? So I followed him for a bit. And I saw him going into an old classroom. 

It had been deserted for a few months, and while Mr Headmaster Bumble-Bore decided what to do with it, it just sat there. Very boring. Sure, Filch cleaned it, but that just made it more boring. 

"So what does Potty Potter want with a deserted classroom, then?"

I swear he jumped a yard high into the air at least. "Peeves!"

"The one and only! Aren't you lucky?"

"No."

"Too bad. What're you doing here, eh? Up to mischief?"

Glared at me he did, through those stupid glasses of his and all. "Go away, Peeves!"

I shook my head. "Oh dearie dearie me... out of bed after hours, in a deserted corridor, caught with an Invisibility Cloak, and - what's this? I do believe I hear Filch a little way away." I shook my head. "Rotten bad luck that is for you, that is." 

"No, Peeves, wait!" His voice became desperate. "Don't tell Filch I'm here!" He begged in a hissing whisper. Oh, I'd waited for this ever since his first year. He was begging _now_, he was. And I was going to enjoy it.

"And why shouldn't I? What would a good little Gryffindor like you want with a boring old room like this, all alone, in the middle of the night? Unless you've got something... **_interesting_**... planned, that is." I noticed he was holding a scrap of parchment. "What's this?" I faked a grab at the parchment - he snatched it back against his chest as if he was cradling his precious Snitch. "Ha! Something important, maybe even something **_restricted_**, or worse..." Oh yeah, he was really squirming now, white as a sheet, and I was loving it.

"Peeves... please, just go away. Don't come back here tonight, don't tell anyone I'm here. Please." 

I snorted. "And what's it worth to you if I do?"

He paused. "I have two whole bags of dungbombs in my trunk, in my dormitory. They're both yours, if you leave me alone. Do we have a deal?"

I blinked. I hadn't expected him to actually offer me anything. Normally, I'd be quite insulted at his childish attempt to bargain, but the fact was, Bumble-Bore and the Bloody Baron had organised it recently that I couldn't get hold of any more dungbombs after a little tiny harmless prank I pulled at an important meeting. With the Minister of Magic. 

And dungbombs were my favourite, next to water balloons. And he knew it too, the little stinker. 

"All right, then," I finally conceded, the lure of the bombs greater than the need for vengeance. "I'll go get them now. But if I find they're not in your trunk..."

"They are, Peeves, I promise you," he said, fervently relieved. "Thanks, Peeves. Have fun with them," he added as I left for the Gryffindor Tower.

__

I promise. Thanks. Have fun. 

Even with his last words, stupid Potter's too damned nice. 

In the dormitory, I quietly pried open the lid of his trunk, and muffled my gleeful chortles when I found not only the promised bags of dungbombs, but a few Canary Creams as well. _This'll be fun..._

After hauling my booty to a safe place where even Filch couldn't find it, being careful not to wake anyone up and lose my dungbombs, I stopped and thought about it for a minute. Sure, Potter had given me the dungbombs just to get me to leave him in peace... but it _was_ a nice thing to do, considering that he thinks I'm just as annoying and in-the-way as I think he is. 

So, all gentleman-like, I decide to do the proper thing, and go back to say thank you before leaving him alone and keeping my half of the bargain. 

When I got back, I thought it was a joke. Another joke on Peeves by Potter. Right mad I got. Told him that THAT wasn't one bit funny, and how did he think it made us dead people feel? "Get down, Potter. I said get DOWN! Damn you, Potter, _this **isn't funny**_!"

And it wasn't one bit funny. It was serious.

Not that Filch believed me when I went to him. I tried to tell him, I did, I did, but no, he wouldn't listen, no one listens to old Peeves, do they? Not anymore.

I went back. Tried to undo the knots - but they were too tight, and ghostly fingers just don't help things, you know? He was still alive, still blinking. "C'mon, Potter," - and now I was the one begging - "undo the knots, you can do it!" But he couldn't. The ones digging into his neck were too tight, and the ones keeping the cloak round the rafter were too high for him to reach. He couldn't have untied them... but he might have if he'd tried. 

He refused to try. Just looked at me, asking me something with his eyes... but I wasn't going to do what he asked this time.

Next thing I thought of was Nearly-Brainless Nick. He was fond of the Potty boy, surely he'd make Filch come...

Well, how was I to know that he was talking with the Bloody Baron? All I managed to say was "Nick... Potter... classroom... NOW..." and then the Baron gave me that look and boomed one word in that voice of his. "**BEGONE**!" I was off like a rocket. I ran back into Filch. I tried again, thought of everything I could to make him run - but damn him, he wouldn't run. So I had to find someone else, ANYBODY else...

I know! The Fat Friar of Hufflepuff! He's into all that forgiveness and crud, he'll listen to me! And he would have, too - if I could have found him. 

Back to Filch, it was all I could do... 

After he threatened to set an angry Bloody Baron on me, I went back to the boy. Waxy white skin. Blue lips. Staring eyes. _Shit shit shit..._ I looked at the cloak. I can't untie the ropes, but maybe I can cut him down?

But how? I'd need - A sword! The Bloody Baron has a sword, maybe - oh, no, it's a ghostly one. That won't work. 

Filch caught me trying to tug a sword off a suit of armour. I told him it was to get the boy down. I told him it was vital. I told him... that I would **never** play a prank on him for the rest of the time he was in this castle, if only he'd come now.

I meant it too - stupid thing for a poltergeist, but I was literally turning myself inside out by then, trying to think of something.

He came with me. I cut the boy down, not that it was easy. Filch caught him, hurried off to get help.

Rah rah rah. Not like it did any good, not by then.

~*~*~*~*~*~

That was five days ago. Filch left yesterday. I kept my word - didn't play a single trick on him for the rest of the time he was here. Or on anyone, really. There's no fun in playing tricks on someone who's too busy crying their eyes out to get mad at you.

Today at dinner, I hurled one of Potter's dungbombs. The very first one. 

Right under the Bloody Baron. 

Don't think he expected that, but then a lot of people weren't expecting things, were they? 

"Begone, is it?" I hissed. "Well isn't it lovely, your nobleness, you can make a lot of things begone. You made me begone, and because you stopped me talking to Nick, you helped make the Potter boy begone. Maybe now you can make that stink begone, too?"

And I left, and came here, up to the Astronomy Tower. The Fat Friar came up to talk to me a bit, before going downstairs, presumably to get the Baron to calm down. 

It'll take a long time before tricks are fun anymore. And even longer before I can stand to look at a dungbomb.

__

Oh Potter, you rotter, oh what have you done...

END.

****************

Author's notes: Well, how was it? Next chapter coming up soon, again from another character you might not be expecting. 


	3. Family Ties And Tangles

FAMILY TIES AND TANGLES.

Warnings: See part one for warnings. This one is from Petunia Dursley's POV.

*************

I had to bite back a most un-ladylike phrase as I saw the toaster emitting smoke - Vernon hated having burned toast almost as much as Dudleykins did, bless his heart. Quickly putting on two more slices of bread, I hoped it would hurry up and cook, as I could hear my precious boy coming down the stairs. Home from school again - and almost a man now! So grown up and handsome.

Vernon followed Dudley into the kitchen, and I greeted them while keeping a careful eye on the sausages and bacon. It was Sunday, and diet or no diet, Dudley was going to get a decent treat once a week. What harm would it do, anyway? That school nurse knew nothing of my son.

"Good morning, Vernon sweetheart, good morning Dudleykins! Here, sit down and I'll fill up your plates for you. Your coffee's percolating, Vernon..."

"Uh, Mum..."

"Yes, Dudley dear? Is something wrong?" 

"... you've done it again. Set the table, I mean."

"Well, of course I had to set the table, sweetums, or we couldn't eat, now could we..." I trailed off, holding the frying pan and spatula as I turned around. Vernon's place was set, with his coffee mug sitting next to his plate, ready, just the way he liked it. Dudley's place was ready with a gleaming plate, soon to be filled with some nice nourishing food for him, and a glass of juice. My own plate was there, with a few pieces of toast (have to watch the weight at my age, you know.)

And the fourth plate sat there, gleaming at me as if to laugh.

The boy's plate. 

"Oh... oh dear." Flustered, I quickly scooped the plate away and turned my attention to dishing out the meat and eggs to my darling hungry men. 

They sat and ate, but I saw the uncomfortable look they gave each other. Normally he'd have been home from that dreadful school of his by now, and and much as I loathed to admit it, I was used to it now, especially as it got rid of him for most of the year.

"Boy, get the mail- dammit," Vernon muttered. I glared at him slightly for using such language in front of Dudley. "Even when he's not here, he's - here!"

It was true too. I'd almost banged on the small bedroom's door this morning, out of habit. It was summer. The boy is here in summer. Therefore I can make him work. 

But not today. Or any other day.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When that owl came fluttering through the window - at ten in the morning, just last Sunday, in full view of the neighbours who were starting to walk off to church - well, I could have just died. Vernon yelled at it, chased it out the back door, but the noise had woken poor Dudley, who came down in his pyjamas, poor dear, to ask what the ruckus was. Even deaf old Arabella Figg turned up on our doorstep, asking if we needed any help. I was so mortified, I cried. _When you come back from that freak school, boy, you'll wish you'd never been born!_

Actually, Mrs Figg looked a little like she'd been crying herself. She brushed it off though - "oh, just some sad news dear, nothing interesting for you, just a silly old lady who's found out about the death of... an old friend." 

Funny how things stick in your mind like that. If the letter from that awful place had said anything else, I don't suppose I'd even remember that she was sad about someone's death.

Vernon saw my face - demanded to know what was in the letter. I handed it to him wordlessly.

"What is it? What's going on here, Mum?"

"Harry's dead, Dudleykins."

He just looked at me, blinked for a second. "Wait a moment. He's... what?"

"He's dead, son," Vernon added gruffly, having just finished the letter. "The letter's from his headmaster. Seems he was the target of some madman of - of that kind," he added quickly, remembering Mrs Figg's presence at the last moment. "He - Harry - stopped him attacking people, helped catch him - the details are a bit vague here. But-" 

"That's enough, Vernon - Dudley's to have no nightmares." I've never spoken that sharply to my husband in my life then again, it's not every day in your life that you get a letter that basically said, _"your nephew was a hero to us, but he hung himself, awfully sorry about that."_ I didn't know what to say - what to feel. 

It was like when Lily died, only... not. I mean, what are you supposed to think when your sister dies, and her baby ends up literally in your lap as you try to feed the crying thing? I was too busy and too in shock to feel anything much.

~*~*~*~*~*~

My memories of her aren't exactly fond. Even as a young child, we were "Petunia and Lily - Mother's darling flower garden." Oh, _please_. All we needed was a Rose and a Violet and the set would have been complete. She was always everything I wasn't. Prettier, smarter, more popular, our parents' favourite, better liked by the boys. I was briefly vindicated when I found out that she was a witch - only to find out that my parents were proud of THAT, too! And soon she was doing magic here, there and everywhere, while I had to do things the hard way. Pretty soon, instead of "Petunia and Lily", we were introduced to people as "Lily and Petunia". 

It wasn't anything **_she_** did, really - she was never anything less than a decent sister to me, no matter what I said to her - it was how people reacted to it that drove me crazy! LOVELY Lily, PERFECT Lily... Lily of the valley, who toils not and neither did she spin... she couldn't cook, or sew, or do anything practical that would let her keep a husband! But then, who needs to know how to cook when you can whip up a meal by waving a polished bit of stick? Who needs to know how to sew when all rips and tears can be instantly mended? 

Who wants a petunia when they can have a lily? 

Vernon did, that's who. He didn't care about my loony, senile parents... he barely even threw Lily a glance. **_I_** was the one he wanted. 

For once, I was able to beat Lily. I got married before she did. I got pregnant before she did. I gave birth to my son while she was still hiding in maternity clothes. Each of us pretended the other didn't exist, since neither of us was happy in the other's world, and everything was just fine until we found a baby and a long letter - from the same Albus Dumbledore, if you please - nestled on our front doorstep.

And now, sixteen years later, we had the same situation all over again. Only this time, there was nothing left. No child. No personal possessions. Nothing. That side of the family tree had now withered permanently on the vine. We weren't even invited to the funeral. Just notified that it was on and that they'd take care of it. 

But then, we didn't want to go to the funeral. Didn't want any of his dangerous magical things. And he ought to have been grateful just to get food and clothes from us, let alone any ridiculous keepsakes like photos and toys. After all, it wasn't as if we **had** to keep him.

There's a perfectly good orphanage a few suburbs over. We could have used it at any time - discussed the idea many a time, in fact. 

But we never did...

~*~*~*~*~*~

Vernon's sitting in the living room, reading the newpaper. Dudley's upstairs playing on his new Playstation - last one got broken in a little tantrum, I'm afraid. I'd better go check on him, just make sure he's okay -

"Petunia?"

I pause with my foot on the bottom step. "Yes, Vernon?"

"I, er..." His face goes red, as it always does when he's stressed or embarrassed. "I never liked the boy, let's get that straight... but he was your flesh and blood for all that. I never wanted him in this house, but I'd never have actually wished for..."

"I know, Vernon. Me, too."

And then I go upstairs to check on Dudley. I never realised how easily teenagers could get depressed these days. I don't want Dudley to end up like Lily's boy... I want him to know Mummy's always there.

Knocking on his bedroom door, I call his name softly. His "come in," is slightly startled, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. Quickly, I push open the door...

To find him sitting on the bed, looking at a beautifully-bound photo album.

"I... I found this in Harry's room. I mean, I guess if - he's not coming back - then I can have that room back, huh?"

"Y-yes, yes... if you want..." My attention is on the pictures. _Where did Harry find these? All these years, and I had none..._

Not a single one... and now there's a book full of them.

"This is Aunt Lily, right Mum?"

"...Yes. And her husband. And... Harry. When he was a baby."

"Oh... Do wizard photos always move?"

"I don't know. The ones Lily brought home from school always did, though."

"Okay." There was a slight hesitation before Dudley spoke again. "Aunt Lily looks like she was much nicer than Aunt Marge."

"Dudley!" The scolding comes automatically. "Don't say that - what if your father heard? He'd be so hurt!" Secretly though - I can't help it, I'm pleased. _Dudley likes my sister better than Vernon's sister._

"But she would have been, wouldn't she? Not so... so... **_Marge_**." Now I have to stifle a giggle at the sheer disgust in Dudley's tone. _Petunia, get a hold of yourself at once! _

Mercifully, Dudley continues without noticing my lapse of etiquette. "I would have hugged Aunt Lily without getting paid - she wouldn't have squished me into her chest and made me sneeze with dog hair all over her." He gives me a sly look. "It was really funny when she was nasty to Harry and he blew her up like a balloon. That's the sort of thing that makes ME wish I was magic sometimes... but don't tell Dad that."

I bit my lip. _Lily... what would you have thought of it? Punished him, no doubt, but I bet you would have had a good laugh too. Well, I didn't think it was at all funny... but I suppose that doesn't matter now. Your son's with you, wherever you are... and mine's with me._

"Don't worry, Dudley... I won't tell."

END.

****************


	4. Perfect Percy

PERFECT PERCY.

Warnings: See previous chapters. This one's from Percy Weasley's POV. 

****************

Two weeks. 

It's been just two weeks since the entire wizarding community in Britain was thrown into chaos; two weeks since Hogwarts was thrown into utter shock; two weeks since Hogwarts lost its youngest - and best - Quidditch Seeker in a century; two weeks since my brothers and sister aged twenty years.

It feels a lot longer.

Two weeks since Harry died. No. Not died. "Died" implies an illness, an accident. Maybe even 'murdered'. This time two years ago, the words "Harry died" would have meant precisely that. 

It still means that, if you count suicide. Because that's what he's done. 

__

Suicide: verb; To kill oneself intentionally. Derived from the Latin words "sui" ("of oneself") and "cidium" (which is derived from the even older word "caedere", meaning "to kill"). Loose translation, "to commit self-murder". 

And he may as well have murdered Ron, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I guess in a family as big as ours, there can't help but be favourites. Bill and Charlie were the first, the bravest, the cleverest, the best - they set the standard. Fred and George were twins, unique - they were special just because of what they were, what they are. And Ginny - well, for Mum to finally have a girl after six boys, it was a real celebration for her. A daughter to share "girl-things" with, pass down the wisdom of females and how to deal with those of us born into the mere male gender, the ones unfortunate enough to be the owners of a Y chromosome. 

So that left Ron... and me. 

When we were younger - Bill and Charlie already off to Hogwarts, me just waiting for the owl to bring _my_ acceptance letter - I was the lucky one to babysit. Ginny just sat and played with dolls or crayons, as most little girls do, I suppose. Fred and George were too wrapped up in each other to leave any room for Ron. Hell, they hadn't even mastered the art of deliberate annoyance yet.

Note the 'yet', please. 

So that left Ron, sitting on the sofa and trying to pretend he didn't care that he didn't fit in. That left me at my wit's end on how to amuse him... how to just make him smile. Finally, I taught him how to play chess.

He picked it up fairly quickly. And in a year, he was beating the pants off me. Every time. Ron had real talent... but it wasn't going to grow at the Burrow. I could only hope Hogwarts would give him what he needed.

But surprisingly enough, once I was vanquished at chess, once he could view me as an equal... he started talking to me. Confiding in me, asking advice, sharing stories of his day.

And to my shock, I found myself doing the same, as we snuggled together on the lounge, Ron falling asleep in my lap more often than not. 

When I went to Hogwarts, I was surprised by the regular barrage of owls that came to me from the Burrow - not from Mum or Dad, but from Ron, talking about his days, still asking advice, still... being my little Ron. Good thing Errol was young in those days. Our correspondence was quite busy in the first few years... then it dropped off a little.

And of course, when Ron came to Hogwarts himself, he began to spread out, find his own friends, his own identity away from "the Weasley family". I knew he would - after all, isn't that the first thing I'd done myself? 

So... why did it make me feel so sad?

And the next thing I knew, there was another addition to the Weasley clan - as if we needed another brother! But Harry... Harry is - was - the kind of kid that simply slipped into your heart precisely because he didn't try to worm his way in. He just **_was_**. Good, kind, generous, thoughtful... everything I would have wanted in Ron's best friend. Then again, Ron always had good taste. He _is_ my brother, after all.

Oh, there were times when I thought that being with Harry was more dangerous for Ron than it was worth - mainly every time You-Know-Who came into the picture - and they didn't have a perfect friendship. Normally, if they had different opinions, they agreed to disagree, but when they fought, they **_really_** fought. A few days after the Goblet of Fire selected Harry's name, I received an owl from Ron. First time in a long time we'd owled each other.

And it was the first time I'd ever known him to be so... vitriolic. So angry and betrayed he could see no reason. I did try to tell him - "Listen to Hermione," I wrote back. "Maybe Harry's telling the truth - why would he need more danger?" In a perverse way that makes me wholly disgusted with myself, I was almost glad that Ron didn't listen to me for a few weeks, glad that Harry and Ron were fighting, if it meant I had my position as elder brother and confidante back in Ron's heart. 

But no matter how hard they fought, I knew it wouldn't last too long. The love between them wouldn't let it last. Their love... not neccessarily as a lover, although it might have been that too, although silent and undeclared. But sometimes love is love, and it doesn't need a qualifier like 'brother' or 'lover' - the love just exists. 

Ron loved Harry, plain and simple. And Harry loved Ron just as much - the second task in the Tri-Wizard Tournament was more than proof of that. What Harry would miss most of all was taken. 

And I found out that it was Ron.

The twins tormented me for a long time after for losing control, running to hug Ron in relief after he came up. He'd been down there so long... well over the specified time. Their accusations of being like a mother hen were all the more irritating because I couldn't really deny it. But then again, as I reminded them, how would they have liked it if say, Fred had been in Ron's place, and George in mine? They shut up pretty fast. 

But that didn't really matter. Ron was safe, Harry was safe, only one more task to go, and whether they wanted each other as boyfriends or as brothers, they were happy. And despite the worsening situation at work, I was comforted knowing that much. 

But now...

~*~*~*~*~*~

Hogwarts broke up for summer holidays last week. Fred, George and Ginny... they all came home looking so old. Ginny was crying, the twins were thin and grim. "Why?" Ginny wailed. "Voldemort was gone, wasn't he? He couldn't come back, not for ages anyway! Why'd he..."

George just hugged her, while Fred looked grimly at me. "Perce... about Ron..." he started awkwardly.

And then Ron came in, lugging his boxes and Pigwidgeon's cage. I know for a fact that my jaw dropped.

Ron looked totally calm, not bothered at all. Indeed, he seemed quite cheerful as he went about letting Pigwidgeon out of his cage. "There you go, you stupid little git, just don't go flying into Mum's omelettes, you know how she gets." Shooing the uncharacteristically still owl off his arm, he ignored Pigwidgeon's sad hoots and attempts at affection, and asked me, "Hi there, Perce! Still battling the evils of the substandard cauldron?" he grinned. "Whatever you do, just don't bore Harry to tears with it when he gets here, okay? He's had a hard enough year. Poor guy deserves a holiday from all cauldrons, Snape's and yours."

Ginny cried harder as I stared silently at Ron. Fred sighed. "Here, Ron, give us a hand with this stuff and get it upstairs, would you?" As the two of them left the room, balancing a huge pile of heavy boxes and trunks between them, I was startled from watching them by George's voice.

"He's in denial. Total, complete and utter denial." George's face was pale, lips pressed together. "He just won't believe that Harry's dead, he's positive he's just gone somewhere as part of a mission to clean up after Voldemort. He even told Dumbledore off when he tried to take Harry's things away. Insisted that they come here." _This is so unfair, so not right. I wanted the twins to grow up, but not this way... **never** this way..._

"Harry left his Gringotts key with a note tied round it that says it's for Mum and Dad, for being 'his family' -" George chokes slightly on the word, "and apologises for not being able to give more. _More_, Perce!"

I'd thought it would be hard... I never knew how hard it would be. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Things didn't really get a lot better. Ron would stick his head out the window waiting for Hedwig to deliver a letter from Harry, totally ignoring the fact that Harry had left Hedwig to Hermione, since she had no owl of her own. He complained if Mum happened to serve up a food that Harry didn't like - "What if he'd arrived here tonight, Mum? Honestly, can't we have his favourites here ready for him?" He set up a makeshift bed next to his own, seemingly unruffled by the fact that it went unused night after night. "He'll be here, Perce, don't worry," he said to me once. "You know Harry - he just has to make the dramatic entrance. I mean, he's Harry!"

__

Yes, Ron. The dramatic entrance. Complete with a tragic exit.

But when he stole some money out of the emergency jar to catch the Knight Bus to Privet Drive, convinced that those Muggles were being cruel to Harry again, I knew things had gone too far.

"They've locked him up before! Starved him, too!" he protested when the twins and I went and got him. "Fred, George, you were there, tell him!"

"He's right, Percy, they did," Fred spoke up dully. "Treated him like a prisoner." 

I made up my mind. "Fred, George... go home. Tell Mum and Dad that Ron and I are going to Diagon Alley and we're not coming back till tomorrow." Ignoring their startled glances, I gently urged them home before taking Ron to Diagon Alley with me. I booked a room for us in the Leaky Cauldron and sent a quick message home saying so by Floo, knowing that my parents trusted me completely to take good care of Ron.

I therefore couldn't help but feel a little guilty as I methodically set about making Ron falling-down drunk. 

It was the only thing I could think of. Once again, I was at my wit's end on how to deal with him. 

He got drunk all right - smashed right off his face might have been how the twins would have put it - but he still wouldn't talk to me about what I wanted him to talk about.

So I did what I had done so many years ago.

I pulled out the chessboard.

Years of playing had sharpened his skills considerably, but his drunken state hampered him, while my own perfect sobriety helped me. "You've been playing a lot of this at Hogwarts, right?"

"Yeah."

"With Harry?"

A pause. "Yeah. With Harry." The wistfully slurred tone in his voice gave me some hope, and I pushed ahead.

"Any good?"

"Sort of good. Makes lotss o' mistakes, though... doez'n think... forgets e's got all his pieces, so then he loses." 

"So he tries to checkmate with just one piece, and ends up in checkmate himself?" I asked this question softly.

"...Yeah."

And then he broke down.

He's almost seventeen now, and I've just turned twenty-one, but he was in my arms and in my lap and I rocked him back and forth while he went through the worst sobbing fit I've ever, ever seen. He cried so hard it just shook his whole body, and several times he started choking, and I had to urge him to breathe. His face was as red as his hair, my robes were sopping wet from his tears and there was a disgusting silver trail all over me from his nose, and I couldn't have been more grateful. 

It must have been almost an hour before he can even speak again, in a tiny voice that I almost miss. "Why?"

"I don't know, Ron. I wish I could tell you. But only Harry knew."

"Why din' he talk to me?"

"I don't know. I think he was afraid to make you unhappy with his unhappiness. Harry was funny like that. He'd have done anything to save you from unhappiness."

"Like I'm happy now?" Bitter, angry, hurting. But, thank the stars, finally believing it.

"I don't think he thought about that. Remember, Harry always blamed himself for things he couldn't do anything about. He tried to take on responsibilities that the wizarding community should never have placed on him... but with responsibility comes importance. And I don't think he ever really realised just how very important he was to everyone. How much he was loved."

"I l-oved h-h-him."

"I know you did. He loved you too. More than anything. More than a lover, more than a brother, more than both of those things. He just loved you. Far more than anything else in his life. Including his own self."

"His n-note... said 'beloved'. Who?"

I heard the unasked question. _'Please, not me... don't let it have been my fault that he...'_

"I don't think anyone will ever know that but Harry, Ron. But what did the note say?" I hadn't heard of any note, beyond the one on the Gringotts key and the one about Hedwig. Short, one-sentence notes.

"Said b-beloved... all my love to you... my choice... no one's fault."

I closed my eyes and swallowed. "There you go, Ron. Harry said it himself - no one's fault, but his own choice. It might not have been the choice anyone else wanted him to make... but it was his decision." My words rang hollow in my own ears, though. _He'd never have hurt you in a million years by **choice**, Ron... so why did he do this to himself? To you? To everyone? I don't understand either, Ron..._

Ron sniffled and curled into my lap. "Tired..." 

"Then go to sleep, Ron," I said, trying to get him onto one of the beds, but he clung to me like a limpet, muttering "Don' go... don' you go too, P'rcy."

How could I go then? So I sat there on the couch, the flames slowly dying and my legs going numb under Ron's weight as he fell asleep. I, too, was slowly drifting off when I got the shock of my life. 

Hedwig tapped on the window.

Astonished, I gently pried Ron's grip loose and hastened as silently as I could to the window. As soon as I opened it, Hedwig dropped a parcel into my hand and flew off, keening mournfully into the night all the way. The parcel was labelled simply **_'To Ron'_**.

Leaving the parcel on the windowsill, I picked Ron's limp form up, made doubly difficult by his size and the amount of alcohol he had consumed. Placing him gently on one of the twin beds, I smoothed back his hair before fetching the parcel, a bowl and a glass of water - all things I knew Ron would either want or need in the morning.

Curiously, I felt the parcel, trying and failing to guess what it might be, and realising it finally when I took my own glasses off to sleep. Same shape, same feel of stiff, comforting frames.

Harry's glasses. Hermione - or Hedwig - had somehow managed to arrange for Ron to have something unique to Harry. Something special and close to Harry, yet nothing that Ron would feel compelled to return. Something that had rested on Harry's face for years, that had framed his eyes, the windows to his soul; had been brushed with his eyelashes, touched with his tears. His glasses.

__

Hermione... Hedwig... Harry, wherever you are... whoever of you organised this, thank you. Thank you more than I can express for giving Ron back something like this.

As I extinguished the lamp, I wondered one last time.

What had driven my newest brother, my dark-haired, gentle, affection-starved, scarred little brother, to do such a thing? Why had he chosen that route just when his future seemed brightest, most hopeful?

Why had he felt that he had to choose to hurt my baby brother so?

END.

******************


	5. The Grim

THE GRIM.

Warnings: Oh, you know by now - see chapter one. Sybill Trelawney gives the event the benefit of her Sight.

***************

I knew it, you know. The moment that poor, poor child entered my Tower for his first lesson in seeing into the mists of the future, I knew he was destined for nothing but tragedy and agony. I couldn't help but feel my heart break when those eyes looked at me with simple childish emotions - bewilderment, amazement at seeing someone with the Sight, friendly cameradie - all masking a cloudy choking sadness and a destiny as black as a Grim itself. 

Nobody can escape the Grim forever, not even the Boy Who Lived. He escaped the destiny I saw many, many times, no doubt due to my forewarnings on the matter. But finally he submitted, unable to deny the promptings of Fate any further. Such a brave child - pretending his dark future bothered him not at all must have cost him a great, great deal. He often made light of my warnings to him, perhaps to bolster his own courage as much as to reassure those who were among his friends. And yet when the times came, he always pulled through, always managed a miraculous survival.

Forewarned is, after all, forearmed. And I made sure to warn him of everything that I Saw, to keep him safe. Every warning I gave him simply made the poor child more determined to live, to make it through. 

I had not the heart to tell him that no matter how hard he tried, he could not outrun his fate.

But it seems that he learned this for himself. After all, how else could a burning desire to live a full life despite it all wither and fade so quickly into the cold ashes of deadly despair?

~*~*~*~*~*~

While the funeral was handled by Dumbledore and was strictly a private affair, Hogwarts did hold a memorial feast for him. Not much was eaten, however - indeed; there was not a great deal of food served. The house-elves of the kitchen were in an uproar of grief, apparently one or two in particular, and as such not as much work was done. What was served, however, I can only imagine were the poor child's favourite foods, for I can assure you that such plain, simple fare is not usually served to the teaching staff, who are of a more... refined palate. 

Excepting Hagrid, naturally.

As I said, few people were in the mood to eat, with a few notable exceptions - those who seemed intent on drowning their sorrows in their meals, for one. Then there was a young man with strikingly blond hair sitting at the Slytherin table, who seemed more intent on systematically hacking his meat to shreds rather than eating it, an angry, forbidding scowl on his face. I decided to Look into this matter further when I retired to my Tower and my Inner Eye was fully clear. 

And of course, there was the child's best friend, the young Mister Weasley. He ate with a good appetite, eyes sparkling and urging others to join him. His fellow fifth-years, particularly the other young men, and his siblings, looked at him sadly with worried eyes. Others looked upon him in anger. The words "cold" and "unfeeling" were written across many a countenance.

I sighed. "Ah, me. Mister Weasley at least seems to realise his great good fortune. I warned him two years ago, as thirteen of us sat down to break bread, that whoever rose from the table first would face death. He and the deceased child rose at almost the same time - it seems he has recognised his close escape."

Professor Snape turned from his sulky contemplation of his untouched plate to stare at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. I smiled at him serenely. After all, one does not try to flounce the fact of one's wisdom; it is up to others to finally realise that fact for themselves. But to have impressed Severus Snape, of all people, was indeed a true balm for the ego - no man has been a greater Doubting Thomas than he. I recall back to his student days, when he left my class in a sceptical rage, much like Miss Granger - and much earlier. In the very first lesson, at that. It had been such a pity - granted; he had shown no signs of having any Sight, but even at that age, what a heart-stopping young man. _If he had stayed in my class, perhaps I could have arranged evening tutoring, taught him yet more..._ And still he remains darkly mysterious and handsome today.

The whole school was quiet as Headmaster Dumbledore stood and addressed them with a short speech regarding Harry. Indeed, some of the school were almost unnaturally quiet - Hagrid, who had been openly sniffling into his soup and sobbing into his vegetables, was ramrod stiff and unmoving, as if locking away his terrible grief. He had been, of course, the first one to find the boy and take him from the Muggles - and it was no secret that as fond as he was of almost every student, he harboured a special, almost fatherly affection for the doomed child.

~*~*~*~*~*~

As the feast ended and the student body slowly dispersed, I walked up to the Tower, noting absently where people went. Hagrid went off still sniffling into his handkerchief abominably, talking quietly with - Severus, of all people? - I strained my ears to catch glimpses of their conversation.

"- My apologies for the _Petrificus Totalus_, Hagrid, however -"

"- how coul' she think tha' o' Ron -"

"- Indeed. For once I am in agreement with you, however..."

"- But **_Professor_** -"

"- May I ask how you think making a scene would have helped Mister Weasley? Or anyone else?"

Shaking my head, I dismissed the odd conversation with the poor, mundane Hagrid from my mind, and turned instead back to the long path to my Tower. In truth, this is why I often have my meals in my rooms - I despise the long walking distance each way.

But before I could take another step, I gasped. For I saw it. 

I saw the Grim. _The Grim!_ **_Here!_** It stood there, looking around, as if for directions, pretending to be an innocent black dog. But it was there. 

Then it ran directly towards a group of students that were slowly walking off, dodging others, headed purposefully for them, tracking them mercilessly. To this day I blame myself for not being able to speak until it had reached the students themselves.

I screamed when it jumped right on top of Mister Weasley, alerting Severus and Hagrid - but too late, oh too late. "The Grim! The Grim!" I shrieked. "Get away, Mister Weasley! Escape at once!" The two men had come hurrying up, as had that self-righteous old prude Minerva McGonagall.

"What is the problem here, Sybil?" Her disdain for me was notable in her speech, but did she truly not see the danger? How could she in good conscience call herself a witch?

"The Grim! It's attacking Mister Weasley!" I wailed.

The boy looked up, a cheeky grin on his freckled face. "Don't be silly, Professor Trelawney. This is just Snuffles. I've known him for two years now. He's - well, I guess you could say he's Harry's dog, in a way. He's waiting for Harry to come back, aren't you, mate?" He ruffled the dog's hair cheerfully as the dog emitted a mournful whimper.

Mister Weasley's younger sister - a pretty, shy little thing - tried to stifle a sob. "Oh, **_Ron_**... stop it! Harry isn't coming back! Not this time!"

"'Course, he is, Gin, don't be a git," was the boy's amicable response. "Sorry Harry's isn't back yet, Snuffles, but don't pay any attention to these depressing sods. C'mon, let's go. You want to see Dumbledore, I bet, don't you?"

"Yes, Mister Weasley, do take, er, _Snuffles_," and Severus spoke the name with strange contempt, "to the Headmaster. It might be best," he added, as the Grim reared back and snarled at him.

Of course. If anyone could handle the Grim now it had taken a physical form and could harm anyone, it would be Dumbledore. _Clever as ever, Severus._ Young Mister Weasley nodded and with a cheery call to the animal, he left in the direction of the Headmaster's office, the beast trotting behind in a manner that seemed almost obedient. 

"Of course..." I whispered, to myself more than anyone, "how could I have not Seen this before?"

"Seen **what** exactly, Sybil?" Minerva interrupted me crossly, glaring at me as she placed a reassuring hand on Miss Weasley's shoulder. One of her elder brothers placed his hand on her other shoulder, as his twin eyed me suspiciously.

"The true reason for Mister Weasley's strange behaviour. He does not grieve for Mister Potter, for he knows that their time of parting will not be long," I breathed, astounded at this new revelation. "After all, destiny will not be denied... there is always a balance that must be maintained, and the Fates will not be satisfied with only one life... it must be balanced with another..."

Everyone reacted to this revelation of my Vision in his or her own way. Miss Weasley broke down and wept in her twin brother's arms, both of whom glared at me in fury, as if **_I_** was responsible for the Grim itself. They should have known the moment it touched their brother that he was doomed. Miss Granger was staring at me as if I was a creature she'd dearly love to squash underfoot - but then again; she has always been a younger version of Minerva - a mundane mind jealous of one with the Sight. Lavender and Parvati looked at each other, aghast and distressed at themselves, no doubt, for not making the connection sooner and protecting Mister Weasley. I would have to assure the poor dears that they were not at fault.

I turned to Severus, hoping to have impressed him again, but he was talking in a low, fast whisper laced with urgency to Hagrid, whose body was oddly stiff again. I was broken from my mild disappointment when Minerva grasped my arm and spun me around. 

"Do you think it grand, Sybil?" she asked in a tone that could have frozen the very blood in one's veins. "Do you think it impressive to make fun of another student's profound grief, to predict a second suicide, in order to make a drama out of yourself?"

"You are a jealous fool, Minerva," I hissed, angered at being talked to so in front of Severus and in front of some of my most promising students. "You blame the messenger for the contents of the message? You saw the Grim - there is nothing that can be done. I tell you that I do not wish Mister Weasley to die - I did not wish Mister Potter to die! But as I said before, the Fates will not be denied, despite what you may think. A life requires another life for balance, and no one - not even a withered old bat such as yourself - can fight against the Fates. The Boy Who Lived himself fought for fifteen years before he lost - I greatly doubt that you could last so long."

With that, I swept back up to my room, the journey passing much more quickly than normal in a red haze of anger. 

__

If you truly want to blame the messenger, blame the Grim.

Settling down with a nice glass of wine, I calmed myself and reflected with bitterness on a sentence that I had missed the significance of in all the excitement.

**__**

"I guess you could say he's Harry's dog, in a way."

How true, Mister Weasley. That poor boy had a Grim on his heels from his very birth. And it finally ran him to ground. 

END.


	6. When You Say Nothing At All

WHEN YOU SAY NOTHING AT ALL.

Warnings: If you're reading this part, chances are you've read the other parts first anyway, so you'll know the drill. This is Neville Longbottom's POV on it all. I've also made a lot of statements about the fates of certain student's parents that may or may not be true, and I've likewise made guesses at what houses older people were in when at Hogwarts. Thanks go to Ozma for the inspiration for Mad-Eye Moody's old House! But naturally I could be wrong, and if books five to seven prove me wrong, well... does it really matter? 

"You say it best when you say nothing at all..." ~ Ronan Keating, "When You Say Nothing At All"

***************

I'm awfully ashamed to admit it now, really I am. But I was a little bit jealous of Harry.

Not a lot jealous - after all, he was my friend, and he was one of those people you can't really hate, even if you try. Not that I hate people a lot, or try to, but I think you know what I mean to say. I really don't know how Professor Snape and Malfoy could hate him so much. 

I don't know WHY Professor Snape hated him, come to that. I knew why Malfoy hated him - the same reason he hates Hermione. He hated Harry for eclipsing him, putting him in second place, in the shadows. He wasn't used to being eclipsed, in any way. 

I'm more than used to it. After all, it's who I am. 

But still, I was just a tiny bit jealous, deep down, because Harry seemed to get everything so EASILY. He was so famous, he beat You-Know-Who singlehandedly more times in his fifteen years of life than most wizards dare to even say the name in fifty years. 

"Vol... V-VOLDEMORT!" See, I can do it, if I try. Now I just have to open my eyes and un-scrunch my fists. Not too hard. 

He was totally fantastic at Quidditch - and he was the Seeker, the toughest job on the team. And he never lost a game, unless you count the Dementors coming onto the pitch and pushing into his memories. And I don't. I mean, it's like... well, I don't like the word any more than the concept, but it's like a kind of rape, only worse, because it's your mind - what makes you YOU. And if someone was raped in the middle of a game of **anything**, you wouldn't blame them for losing, would you? Of course not. 

He wasn't a genius in classes or anything, but he did well enough not to get into trouble much (well, except for Professor Snape, but even _Hermione_ gets into trouble from him). He got good marks - good enough anyway. HE never got Howlers from home, screaming about his latest screw-up at breakfast, loud enough for the entire Hall to hear about how he was hopeless, a let-down, a disgrace to his family. HE never got them, just because he was Harry Potter...

I'm sorry - there I go again. Being mean and bitter to Harry when he isn't here to defend himself. It's that sort of thing that makes me think that Gran and Professor Snape and Malfoy are all right about me - that I really am worthless. Not for the reasons they think, but for doing something unfair like that.

Speaking of Professor Snape... oh dear, I'm going to be late - again...

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry was nice to me - really, he was brilliant. I mean, I'm pretty much the loser of Gryffindor - and I'm not saying that out of self-pity, it's just a fact - and I've probably lost more points for us than the rest of our year's Gryffindors combined. You just don't expect the school hero to pay an attention to the school loser, unless it's to tease. 

But Harry was a good friend to me. Really good. Even after I tried to stop him and Hermione and Ron from sneaking out that night, he didn't hate me. None of them did - and I could have gotten them caught. The delay might've even gotten them killed for all I know, really - who knows what Professor Quirrell actually did? Nobody really knows the details except for the Headmaster, and Harry, and neither of them ever said. Well, that was fair enough. There are some things you just don't want to talk about, it's too complicated to explain or it sounds too weird or it's just too hard to talk about. 

Harry still got a lot of pity mixed in with the admiration, though - another thing I couldn't help feeling was unfair. I mean, he wasn't the only one who lost his parents, ever... Hannah Abbott, she's a Hufflepuff in our year, she was orphaned by the Death Eaters. A few others too - even Millicent Bulstrode from Slytherin lost hers during a big fight between Death Eaters and Aurors, though which side her parents were on, I couldn't say. I've never asked - that's not my business, and it would be really unfair to assume anything just because Millicent is a Slytherin. There ARE Slytherins who don't end up Dark. For all I know, her parents might have been really really great Aurors. I mean, I once heard Professor McGonagall say that Mad-Eye Moody - oops, sorry, I guess I should still say Professor Moody - was a Slytherin, but he was a Light Wizard and one of the strongest Aurors. My parents - well, they were Gryffindors, but Dad was a great Auror too.

The best, Gran always said.

Harry's parents were dead, at least he had that much - what's it called - closure, you know? I have to visit mine, and they still don't recognize me. Never have for as long as I can remember, and never will again. I know that. But I can keep trying, right?

Harry talked to me once, around the start of this school year. I was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, humiliated after getting ANOTHER Howler from Gran, in the middle of the Hallowe'en feast, of all times. I was so embarrassed, I left the Great Hall right away with it, but I'll bet people still heard her calling me "useless" and "a disgrace to my parents' memory" and a bunch of other things I don't want to remember. Once it burned away, I just sat in the common room looking into the fire, busily ticking off all my faults one by one in my head - and trust me, that is a long list. 

And then the portrait swung open, and Harry was there with a small plate filled with treats and two mugs of hot chocolate. He said "Hi, Neville," very gently. I remember I muttered "Hi Harry," back, not very enthusiastically. I didn't want pity, I REALLY didn't. I already felt bad enough. So I turned back to look at the fire and didn't say anything else.

He put the things down on the table in front of us and sat down next to me. He didn't speak, or try and make me eat. He didn't touch it himself either. He just sat there with me, for a long time. 

After a while, I gave in. I hadn't gotten to eat much before the Howler came and the smell of the hot chocolate was just too tempting. I took hold of one of the mugs and picked up a sandwich, and we ate our own little feast together. And while we ate, we talked.

Harry told me that he'd found out about my parents - he said hurriedly that it had been in Dumbledore's office, and he'd found out by mistake, while the headmaster was out, and that Dumbledore hadn't told him or anything. I hadn't thought that Professor Dumbledore ever would, but it was awfully nice of Harry to be so concerned about keeping him clear of blame. I couldn't help it - I cried a bit, in relief that someone actually knew about it, that I had someone to go to if it all became too much sometimes, like it does. I cried and I talked, and he listened. I mean, really listened, took everything I said inside himself.

And he told me that he understood how I felt, a little bit, he told about his relatives, and how much they yelled at him and how dreadful they really were to him - everyone knew that he lived with Muggles that he really didn't like, but I'd never known that they were anywhere near like **_that_** until then. Harry never complained much - it was the pity others poured on him that made it seem like his life was so tragic. It _was_ tragic, really, but the most ironic thing of all was that he understood better than anyone that he wasn't the only one who had it hard. He just couldn't get everyone else to realise that. 

The best thing he did, though, wasn't the sharing about his own life and his own private sadnesses. It wasn't even the listening, though I really needed both of those things. The best thing he did was sit down next to me and just be there. Having a plate of sandwiches and a mug of hot chocolate - that he didn't touch 'til I did - and sitting quietly next to someone who was having a major case of the sulks, when he didn't have to. He could have been down at the feast, enjoying all the goodies and chatting with everyone - especially Ron and Hermione. But he stayed with me, not talking, not pushing, not anything. He just - was. He just sat there, being there. 

It just feels so, so wrong to think that he's not ever going be there, ever again. I can sort of understand why Ron's gone like he has - once I was old enough to understand what happened to my parents, I thought that surely they'd get better one day, it couldn't last forever. Just like Ron, thinking that Harry's going to be back next year and winning at Quidditch and sitting right there in that empty chair he's supposed to be in now, getting yelled at by Professor Sn-

"LONGBOTTOM!"

"Ahhh!" Jumping, I bang my knee into the desk - hard - and bite back a bad word. I'm already in enough trouble. I can already see the points draining from the hourglass - twenty at least. I don't want to make it thirty.

Oh dear... he's REALLY mad... I follow his gaze down to my desk and jump to see my quill and parchment smoking and dissolving - I spilt some of my potion when I banged my leg, I guess this isn't exactly an Ageing Potion...

"Idiot boy -" I can't listen. I just can't. Miserably shrinking down into a huddle, bits and pieces of what he's saying float down to me. The usual stuff, really. It's weird how the Professor can say the same insults running for five years and they still hurt just as much. The other Gryffindors are standing up for me - or trying to - but the Professor isn't listening. 

"- of all the absolute moronic -" "- added far too much wolfsbane -" "- totally forgot the Mandrake juice -" "- made a bloody poison -" "- stupid, brainless, shoddy work -" "- testing it at the end of class -" "- what did you think would happen, are you trying to get yourself KILLED?"

I guess his lecture finished there, because he'd just stopped talking. Tentatively I look up, and that's funny, because he's looking at me kind of strangely - is a person's face supposed to be able to go white like that? I look around - Hermione'll know what's wrong, or someone else will - but everyone else is looking kind of frozen too. Even the Slytherins look uncomfortable -

Oh. OH. The Professor said something about someone killing themselves, right after... I've got to break this weird, tense atmosphere, nobody else is going to, they're all looking at each other, but no one's SAYING anything. "I'm really sorry, Professor," I say, as apologetically as I can. "I didn't mean to - I'll clean it up right now..."

Funny, normally I'd get a detention and lots of points off, but I didn't get either this time. He just told me to clean it up quickly, and that was it. I guess he must have felt bad about saying what he did - it was only a figure of speech, but he couldn't have picked a worse one, and though he's a strict teacher and often unfair, and I'm scared of him, I honestly can't believe that he'd ever be so deliberately cruel as to make fun of Harry when he's dead. In fact, he seems a little lost now that he can't pick on him. Besides, you can see it in his eyes, he's trying to tell himself "It was only a figure of speech..."

And in front of Hermione of all people. Between handling Ron and being a big-sister figure for Ginny and a lot of the other girls to talk to and cry on throughout all this, as well as her own grief, she's got it very very hard right now. 

You can tell by the eyes. Harry would have known it too - if he was here. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Cleaning the mess up took a little bit more time than I originally thought - dinner had already started by the time I got to the Great Hall. I hurried to my seat, trying to be inconspicious - I've had a lot of practice at sneaking in late to meals. 

Now that's awfully weird... a hand actually comes up, waving me to a seat - as if they were waiting for me. "C'mon, Neville, we saved you a spot." Dean? And Seamus? They slide apart, indicating that I should sit in between them. This is weird... but I am kind of hungry and it was nice of them to do this. 

"Thanks," I say as I sit down, wishing for the millionth time that the benches were made of something a little softer than solid wood. No sooner had I taken my place then it seemed like all of fifth-year at our table started pushing the dishes of food towards me. "Hey, Neville, do you want some lamb? It's really tender..." "Here, Neville, some mash?" "Want a corn cob, mate?"

Bewildered but pleased, I fill up my plate, thanking them all, a little bit embarassed at all this attention. What's going on... oh well, better eat up before it gets cold. I take a mouthful of lamb - Parvati was right, it IS good - and try to take a look at Hermione and Ron without looking like I'm staring. Subtlety is not exactly my middle name, but I do okay.

Ron looks the same as he always does - I wonder what it's like for him? You know, for everything to be just fine, but the whole school's crying and talking about something that just isn't true - at least, that's what he must feel like. He keeps on looking at everyone like they're all touched in the head, and most of the school looks at him the same way. It's so cruel - Ron can't let go, he's literally UNABLE to realise Harry's not coming back... at least for now. When he does finally realise it... it scares me, what might happen to his mind, his heart. They were just so close... 

But for now, he's certain that Harry's just off somewhere else, and is coming back any day now. Sometimes he's so convinced, it almost convinces me... I mean, Harry's come back from impossible situations so many times...

But then I look at Hermione and I know it's true, however much I wish it wasn't. She looks dreadful. Oh, I'm not saying that in an insulting way, please don't think that! It's just... well, I'm no expert at how much a girl should weigh, but I can tell she's lost weight and I think she's too thin. Her face is kind of haggard, her hair is all straggly, and her eyes are too old. And I haven't seen her study since we heard the news - not once. Sometimes she doesn't even take notes in class. I think everybody is so worried about Ron that they forget about Hermione. And that includes Hermione herself. 

"-ville?"

"Hmm?" Coming back to myself, I realise that Seamus just said something to me. Oops. "Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't... um, could you repeat what you just said?"

"I said, Dean an' me, we were hoping you'd come and play a game of Quidditch with us tomorrow. It's just a casual game, y'know - the Hufflepuffs have a team all set up, and we need another Chaser... care to join us?"

I blink. "Me... play Quidditch?" It took the entire first year just for poor Madame Hooch to teach me to stay on the broom and make it go where I wanted it to. I couldn't help but laugh a bit when I remembered our very first flying lesson. I ended up with a broken wrist, and a moderately damaged school broom. "Um, I don't think so. Remember flying lessons?" I had another laugh at their faces. Oh yeah, they remembered now. "I'm no good."

"Now, now, don't be saying that!" Gee, he said that awfully fast. 

"Yeah, you've got plenty of things you're good at!" Dean jumped in. 

Well, gee, I was only talking about flying, but it isn't like I'm exactly good at much besides Herbology. Plenty of things? I couldn't help it, I know I had a 'yeah, right' look on my face. "Like what?"

"Herbology!" They said it at the same time. "And, ummm...." Seamus was searching for something more to say, "and there's Trevor!"

"Yeah! You're great at taking care of him - I wouldn't know how to look after a toad! And... and..."

"Remember, back in first year? We wouldn't have won the House Cup if it hadn't been for your points. And Dumbledore gave them to you for having the courage to stand up for what you believed was right." Hermione's quiet voice came from across the table, startling me when it contrasted with Seamus and Dean's excited rambling. I blinked. 

"I, uh..." oh no, I HATE it when I blush... "well, gee, thanks, Hermione..."

"And you're a great friend and a great guy, what's not to like?" finished Dean triumphantly. 

"Well, um..." Great, now my entire face was bright red. "Er..."

"Oh yeah, that reminds me!" Seamus said suddenly. "I was hoping you'd come visit for a while over the summer - you'd love my place, Dad and Mam would be thrilled to see you, d'you want to come?"

"Oh!" For a moment I was quite excited - I've never been invited to anyone's place before! But then I remembered - Gran. I'd have to ask her permission, and she wouldn't like it. She preferred me to stay at home - 'where I can keep my eye on you' - and so we could visit my parents more regularly than I could when at Hogwarts. "...oh. I'd love to, really I would... but I can't. I don't think Gran would like it." The thought of asking her to go visit 'a friend from school' while she stared at me as if I were talking in Parseltongue, the same way she always seems to when I mention the words my and friends in the same sentence... oh no. I shivered. No way, I couldn't possibly.

Besides... I think I'd miss her, and Uncle Algie and everyone. In their funny way, they do love me, I'm sure of it. They just have trouble showing it in normal ways like other people's families.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Trevor? Trevor, where are you?" A few seventh-year Ravenclaws were walking past as I looked for Trevor, but they didn't spare me more than a glance. After five years, just about everyone in the castle by now was used to the sight of me wandering around in the weirdest places, trying to find Trevor. He just seemed to enjoy getting lost. I guess he found it fun - from a toad's point of view, Hogwart's must have seemed really exciting and just full of places to look - and it was usually somewhere down in the dungeons where it was all damp and cold and Professor-Snape-is-going-to-catch-me-at-any-moment-I-just-know-it. You know what I mean, that funny feel in the air that makes your stomach take a vacation. 

But I didn't find him in the dungeons this time. I saw him -

"Trevor? Trevor, come back here! This instant! No, DON'T GO IN THERE!" -

Going into the Owlery. Do owls eat toads? I wasn't about to find out if I could help it. 

Dashing in to the Owlery, I took the corner too fast and stepped on a pile of - well, you know. Owls have to use the bathroom too. My foot slipped and went forward, and the rest of me skidded along with it before landing in some hay. I guess it's there in case the owls want to make a nest and lay eggs. In any case, I was glad it was there - at least it was soft and clean to land in. 

When I picked myself up, I found myself looking straight into the face of a startled owl, snow-white feathers around the amber eyes telling me exactly which owl it was.

"Hullo there, Hedwig," I said softly. Hedwig gave a sad hoot and bobbed her head. After all, Trevor always seems to understand what I say, so why shouldn't I talk to Hedwig? A fluttering at her side revealed another owl that had been hiding behind her for a few seconds - a tiny owl. Ron's owl - what was his name? "Pigmalion" or something long and complicated like that. I knew the nickname was "Pig", anyway. "Hullo to you too, Pig."

Pig hooted in reply before going back to twittering around Hedwig, preening her feathers gently with his beak, tenderly giving out soft hoots, totally unlike the way he acts when Ron tries to send a letter. He was still beside himself, only this time it was because he was confused, I could tell. 

Somehow, Hedwig knew that something dreadful had happened to Harry. And Pig somehow knew she was sad, and was trying to ease her mourning, the only way he could think how.

***_CROAK!_***

I jumped. "Trevor?" And there he was, sitting on the hay. He must have hopped on while I was distracted. I reached out for him, but he jumped away from me, towards Hedwig and Pig. I watched, not daring to move in case Hedwig or Pig turned angry in their sadness - or decided they were hungry. 

He looked up at the two birds directly before him, throat pulsing as always, his yellow eyes meeting theirs. Hedwig blinked, head jerking back in surprise. Pig hooted uncertainly. 

And Trevor croaked again, gently, before doing something I didn't expect at all. He placed one of his clammy little flippers on Hedwig's taloned foot in a little gesture that... well, it was almost... human. Hedwig keened, a long, mournful sound of pure grief as Pig nuzzled up against her affectionately. It was like they were comforting her, the way people would comfort someone who'd lost a loved one.

And somehow, seeing them comfort one another... well, it made me feel a little better too.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Carrying Trevor back up to the Gryffindor Tower, I scolded him. "You know you're not supposed to run off like that... I don't know HOW many times I've told you!" Oh dear... now I sound like Gran. "Oh Trevor... even Hedwig's hurting. Ron's hurting so much he doesn't even _know_ he's hurting. What can we do? So many people miss him..." Trevor just blinked and croaked at me.

Stepping up to the portrait of the Fat Lady, I was surprised to see her sniffling into a lace hankie. Of course, I forgot - the paintings are people too! "Um, Niminy-piminy. A-are you okay, ma'am?" I wasn't sure what else to say.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, yes dearie. Just... it's a little distressing in there. Watch yourself." She sniffled again and mumbled something that sounded like "too young, poor child..." as she opened for me. Stepping in unsurely, I felt for a minute like I'd entered the middle of bedlam.

The common room had just about everyone in it. Including Professor Dumbledore.

But the weirdest thng was seeing Ron argue with the Headmaster.

"Professor, really, Harry's going to hate it if he comes back to find that his stuff's all been taken -"

"Mister Weasley." Dumbledore looked really tired - and for the first time I'd ever seen, he actually looked OLD. "It is but a few days until the end of term. I can assure you, Harry will not be returning before the end of school. Therefore, appropriate arrangements must be made for his things." He gestured to one of two piles of things on the floor.

"It's okay, just send 'em to our house, we'll look after them for him till he comes to get them. Honestly, that great git, the trouble he puts everyone through, I'm going to kick his arse when I see him!"

"W-what's going on?" My own voice sounded like a tiny kitten squeaking or mewing next to loud, full-grown cats, after Ron had finished talking.

"Neville!" "There you are!" Lots of murmurs filled the room as everyone started to talk, but it was the Headmaster that I listened to. 

"These," and he pointed to one of the piles on the floor, "are Harry's things. They are being taken care of, as Harry will not be taking them from Hogwarts this year. The other pile is for any items that you wish to give as a tribute to him." Glancing at Ron, he lowered his voice. "They will be placed in a special memorial, just as Harry himself will be interred on Hogwarts grounds." 

Nodding, I looked first at the pile of Harry's things - his school trunk, open with all his books in it. His wand. His Firebolt broomstick. His school uniform, dress robes and Quidditch robes, everything like that. And his personal stuff, like his own clothes, and a photo album and... well, that was it.

That was it? Aside from a few new-looking shirts and things I guess he must've bought for himself, everything was, well... Gran would never let me wear clothes like that inside the house, let alone be seen outside the house with them. They weren't even decent clothes - they looked like they'd been given to him by someone much, much bigger - and someone who didn't take good care of them, at that. His cousin's clothes? Had to be. Why didn't I ever see that before?

Because I wasn't looking at his clothes. I was either looking at his scar, or looking at his face. I was looking at "Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived", or I was just looking at Harry. I never bothered to look at how he was provided for, I'd always assumed he'd be looked after. But he'd never been provided for properly - and I guess he was used to second-rate clothes once he got to Hogwarts, didn't really think to go buy any new ones much.

The other pile was a funny mishmash of stuff. There was a photo album in there, filled with photos of Harry - hey, wasn't that Colin Creevey's? And there was a bunch of other things too - a book that looked like a diary of some sort, a copy of "Quidditch Through The Ages", and a little teacup that looked like it had been taken from our Divinations classroom... And one of the Weasley twins was setting down something that looked like a Golden Snitch. 

What could I give? What did I possibly have that was worth giving? Sure, I had things I valued - but I couldn't give Trevor! And none of the other things that Gran had ever sent me had meant all that much to me, except maybe...

"Could you hold on a minute, Professor? I want to get something." At Dumbledore's nod, I quickly stumbled up the stairs, nearly tripping on my robes, and set Trevor down on the bed, where he settled down quite happily. Rummaging through my trunk, I found it at last, down the very bottom.

My Remembrall.

I hadn't been there to see it, but I'd been told that Harry had stood up to Malfoy for me and risked expulsion during our first flying lesson in order to save my Remembrall, which I'd dropped when I, ah, had a few problems controlling the broom. He hadn't even really known me, but he stood up for me and wouldn't let it get destroyed or lost. He could've got into trouble too - lucky it was McGonagall who saw him catch it and not anyone else, or instead of becoming Seeker, he might've just been thrown out.

Hurrying back down the stairs, I slipped the Remembrall onto the pile of tributes, each one a little memory of what Harry had meant to someone. It remained brilliantly clear, not turning that dreadful Howler shade of red anymore.

__

I'll never forget you, Harry. I'll always remember you and what you taught me. I'll never need this to remind me of it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Fred - or was it George? - Weasley held the portrait open for Professor Dumbledore while he carefully levitated the two piles through the doorway. Nodding his thanks, the Headmaster bent his head for a quiet word and pushed something small into George - or Fred's - hand before leaving. Looking at it for a moment in confusion, his face twisted up, and he ran up the stairs to the dorms as the portrait closed, his twin hurrying after him. "Hold up there, George!" Oh. So it WAS George, and that was Fred. Ginny ran after them, followed by quite a few of the older students who knew the twins, and the younger years all seemed to dissipate - probably to their own dorms, I think. It was mostly us fifth years who were left downstairs - us and a few fourth years like Colin Creevey and his little brother Dennis, who was in second year. 

It was an uncomfortable atmosphere - just like in Potions class, except this time it wasn't normal. I mean, it was normal to be miserable and not to know what the heck you were supposed to do in Potions, but in the common room? 

Which was why I was so startled that I fell on my behind when Hermione flew up right in front of me and screamed, "Well, were you?"

"OW!" Rubbing my sore rear, I looked up into Hermione's face - and froze. Her eyes were all surrounded by black circles and they were kind of bloodshot and wild. She was breathing funny, pulling the air in and out like it was really hard. It was scary.

"W-was I what?" I really wished I knew what she was so upset at me about...

"You know exactly what I mean! WERE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF IN POTIONS OR NOT?!" she screamed, so loud I'm sure that the whole castle heard. 

"Huh?" And suddenly everything sort of clicked - the way Professor Snape had looked, all white-faced and - frightened. What he'd said had scared him... because he thought I might have been trying to do it? Then at dinner everyone had been paying all that attention to me, pushing over the nicer dishes, praising me, inviting me over...

"No, I wasn't!" The volume of my own voice makes me jump a little - but I'm really upset at that. In fact, my voice sounds almost scary to me, because it sounds so indignant and cross and un-me. "I wasn't. I just made a mistake, the way I usually do. I wouldn't do that on purpose, I haven't even thought about it in years." Standing up, I look into Hermione's face, and all of a sudden I realise just how close to crying she is... and she needs to. And she won't, I know she won't. "Why? Did you want me to?"

__

Ouch. That was mean. But I had to. Sorry, Hermione...

OUCH! Okay, I should have expected a slap. I deserved it... but she plonks herself down on the couch and starts crying, and I sit down next to her. No one else has moved, I think they're still a bit stunned. In another time and place, the looks on their faces might even be funny.

"I didn't mean that, Hermione. I'm really sorry... but I can't say that I didn't mean to make you cry, because I did. You need to, and you weren't." I shouldn't say anything, I should just be there quietly as Harry was for me until she's ready to talk. But she needs to know I didn't want to say such a cruel thing. She puts her head on my shoulder. _Uh-oh._ There's ice in my stomach and my hands feel cold and it's good that she's crying, but now there's a **_girl_** crying on me and what on earth am I supposed to do about it? Harry would have known. Hesitantly I pat her head, feeling like an idiot for treating her like a pet, but what else can I do? 

The rustle of clothes and the sound of sniffles lets me know others are coming closer, and soon people have their hands on us, saying stuff that doesn't mean anything and crying themselves. I think they're relieved for Hermione too, but Ron's a bit scared, keeps asking what's wrong. Please let him realise soon, he needs to cry too...

"What did you mean, you haven't thought about it in years? So you *have* thought about it?" Oops. Parvati caught me on that one.

"Well... sort of. When I came to Hogwarts, I was so happy... I thought that everything would be better and I'd stop being slow and clumsy and all that. I thought I'd just become clever and good at everything, but I didn't. I couldn't fly, couldn't do anything right... I felt like such a terrible failure. I was going to run away to some other country and live as a Muggle or something, where no one would laugh, because no one would care. But then one day, when I was feeling bad about something Malfoy had said, Harry told me I was worth twelve of Malfoy. And I didn't know him very well back then, I only knew the Boy Who Lived, so I started to think - if Harry, the Harry Potter, thought so... well then, maybe I _was_ worth something, after all." It always seems to come back to Harry. How much he meant to all of us. How much he did for us, and we never noticed it.

I feel really terrible. Harry saw me slip out of the Great Hall - but I didn't see him slip away from us. And I should have. Right after he fought You-Know-Who again, he was suddenly so up-and-down all the time, snapping at people, eating a lot or not eating at all, doing everything with a weird possessive air, as if he thought someone would stop him. Then, he just seemed to go all calm, resigned, empty. The least I could have done was sit with him and talked. Or rather, not talked. Just been there.

He was there for me. I wasn't there for him.

I feel terrible.

Even a Gryffindor can't be brave forever. 

END.

^^^^^^^^^^^

MORE AUTHOR'S NOTES:

And another chapter completed - finally! Sorry about the delay, but Neville seemed intent on fighting me all the way. (Maybe I should have let Hedwig eat Trevor or something.) The fact that this was the longest chapter yet didn't help much.

Well, it seems I've done one chapter with the narrator being a Muggle, two chapters with Gryffindor narrators (or former Gryffindors), one chapter with a teacher whose House affiliation is unknown, one chapter with a poltergeist and one with a caretaker with no House affiliation. Hmm. Seems a little unbalanced to me... 

Let me know what you think - should my next chapter be from another Gryffindor POV, a Slytherin POV, a Ravenclaw POV, a Hufflepuff POV or a non-House POV? (I have ideas for all five, but I need someone to help me decide which one should come next.) Reviews are, of course, always very very welcome.


	7. Only The Good Die Young

ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG.

And here is chapter seven, at long last! Amos Diggory (Cedric Diggory's father) thinks about things. Many thanks go to Cyrelia J for booting me into action regarding actually writing this. PG-13 for the occasional bad word and Amos being a stroppy bastard.

*******************************

It's never enough.

The walls are full. We covered them with photos of Cedric - photos of him as a baby, a toddler. Photos of him right after receiving his letter from Hogwarts; the photo he sent from school when he first got Sorted, wearing his brand-new House crest with pride. The photos he sent when he first made it onto the Quidditch team, and later became the Hufflepuff team Captain. And of course, photos from the Triwizard Tournament.

The walls are full, but they can never be full enough. They'll never fill the empty bedroom. They'll never fill the empty chair. They'll never fill the empty bit inside me.

It's strange - how little the glass looks in my hand. I always did have big hands - _'cuddly bear's paws'_, my mother used to call them. But I suppose that it makes sense - if it's only a little glass, then of course the scotch will disappear fast. Not much of it there to stay for long, is there?

Not enough.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry Potter.

I hate that boy. Dear _God_, but I hate that boy. I knew he was going to Hogwarts - Ced wrote and told me so, that all the students had been excited. Then, he wrote to say that somehow the boy had managed to weasel his way onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team - and with the best broom available at the time, too. Minerva McGonagall always _was_ every bit as biased as Severus Snape, though you'd never get her to admit it in a thousand years. She's more careful about it, sneaky cow, but she has her favourites too. Still, the boy had had it hard - he'd lived with Muggles of the most rotten kind, from what I had heard. So I thought, like most everyone else, that this was a break he deserved; especially seeing as he had a real natural talent, according to Ced. I suppose he must have, to have never flown before and yet get in the team. Ced always was honest - he wouldn't have said it if Potter hadn't had at least some natural ability - he was a gentleman, but also a realist.

Still, for all his much-vaunted talent, he lost to my Ced in sixth year - Ced's sixth year, that is. _My_ Ced beat _Harry Potter_. I was so proud, I was talking about it to everyone at work for weeks. And Ced only mentioned it offhand in his letter - didn't seem happy with his victory, bless his modest heart. Still, can't blame him - up against someone three years younger, I suppose he must have felt it was unfair to be proud of his win. Must have felt that it wasn't a proper win because Potter fainted. He would have caught the Snitch first anyway, most likely, and I kept telling him that a Seeker who couldn't stay on their broom obviously wasn't meant to win. It was plain to see that the best man won. But Ced kept insisting that it was different - _'It was the Dementors, Dad, Harry was made to remember terrible things, Harry was under special circumstances...'_

Special circumstances, pah. Don't talk to me of 'special circumstances'. We know all about _that_. Got a newer, even better broom out of that faint, didn't he? **_Another_** top-of-the-line broom that he didn't pay for himself. Rather convenient, that. 

Damn it all to hell, where did that bottle of scotch go...

~*~*~*~*~*~

And then the Triwizard Tournament. Oho, yes. _No one_ is going to forget **that**. How that boy's name got in the Goblet of Fire, I'll never know. No, all right, _he_ didn't do it. I know that NOW. But he didn't bow out like a gentleman should have, he didn't direct Skeeter's attention to the person who was the Hogwarts champion, he just seemed to lap it all up. Again. Like he didn't have enough fame and attention. It was positively revolting.

I told him off, just before the Third Task. I wish I hadn't now... No! I'm _glad_ I did it, damnit! He had no _right_! No goddamned _right_...

That Tournament was no place for a boy. Honestly, just look at the Second Task for proof of that. That nitwit Veela girl went into the lake after her sister - threw an overemotional tantrum as well. Don't think the Tournament was much of a place for her, either - she did terribly in the Tasks, compared to the others. But that's females for you. 

But Ced - Ced went into the lake after the girl he liked, the girl he asked to the Yule Ball. Even that Krum bloke went after a girl he was keen on. Potter went after one of Arthur Weasley's sons - his 'bestest friend'. Rather obvious to see who were the men and who was just a boy, now doesn't it?

Just a boy.

He brought Ced's body back. Fought You-Know-Who and brought it back - of course, according to the story he told, You-Know-Who wouldn't **be** back if it wasn't for him, anyway. But he brought Ced back, and nearly died doing it, and I was grateful for it, at the time. Still am. I visit Ced every day - make sure that little bush is nice and healthy. Ced always did enjoy a view of greenery - his room looked out on the garden. 

He told us the story, and damned if I didn't feel bad for what I'd said to him. He told us that Ced was brave, that Ced was honourable to the last, that Ced had offered him the victory that was rightfully his, that Ced had tried to protect him in the graveyard, that Ced's ghost had protected him even as Ced asked him to bring back his body to us.

The child even tried to give us the prize money, saying it should have been Cedric's, that we should have it... just as Cedric would have done if the positions had been reversed.

My brave, upright boy.

~*~*~*~*~*~

And would that be the end of it? Would Potter leave me alone to mourn my son in peace, and to stare at the pictures on the wall and wonder what might have been? To think of the grandchildren I could have bounced on my knee and told stories to; stories of Quidditch victories and Tournament victories over the Boy-Who-Lived, no less? No.

He killed himself last week, you know.

That little bastard hung himself, right in the school - left himself hanging there for anyone to find.

Heh. Well well... I never knew how satisfying the sound of breaking glass could be - but what a waste of scotch.

_Damn_ you, Harry Potter. How dare you throw away what my son had torn from him? How dare you run away from life when my Ced died trying to help you? If you were so desperate to die, why didn't you just do it last year in the graveyard and leave my son to me? Leave my son with his life, his love, his treasured people... 

I hope you see Cedric flying on your broom in Heaven as you burn in Hell.

I wish you weren't in Hell. I wish you were here so I could shake some sense into your thick head. 

Don't you know that children who die are missed desperately?!

Who was it that didn't tell you?!

Children these days, totally ungrateful...

Never enough...

I need more scotch.

END.

*******************************

Well? Next is a Slytherin POV, and after that - well, that would be telling. Suffice to say that there will be many, many shocks still to come. 


	8. Inside Information

INSIDE INFORMATION.

For all warnings and things like that, see previous chapters. As promised, a Slytherin chapter is here - this is Pansy Parkinson's POV on things, and how her Housemates react to it. 

Pansy: Any violaceous garden plant that is a variety of _Viola tricolor_, having flowers with rounded velvety petals, white, yellow or purple in colour. [From Old French _pensee_, 'thought', also from _penser_, 'to think', from Latin _pensare_.]

*******************************

I wonder why. Really, I do.

Was it that he couldn't take the fame and adulation? He was, after all, a Gryffindor - any Slytherin worth their Sorting would have taken every advantage they could from such a sea of endless opportunity. But he chose not to. I suppose I can understand it a little - after all, there's a difference to being placed on a pedestal, and being placed in a high tower where no one could ever reach - where he could never reach anyone. Did he really hate the mindless adoration that much? ...No, it can't have just been that, surely.

Or was it something else entirely? Something that occured during that last big confrontation with the Dark Lord; the confrontation that nobody seems to know all the details of? Not the Malfoys, not Pettigrew, who's snivelling away in Azkaban - not even Dumbledore seems to know much about it. He doesn't have that dreadful annoying _"I-know-what-you-don't-know"_ air about him this time - he's as confused as the rest of us.

What could have happened during that battle? Maybe he saw something he couldn't forget, heard something he couldn't bear remembering one second more?

Perhaps it was a curse? A slow-acting curse that everyone missed, something insidious that worked over several weeks...? Hmm. He certainly behaved strangely enough for a while. A lot of the teachers like Flitwick twittered on about 'post-traumatic stress' when they thought none of the students could hear. They talked about a lot when they thought we couldn't hear. A curse is a probability - perhaps some old, archaic form of Imperio?

I don't know. And in the end, that's my problem. I really don't know.

A clang from a few seats down. I looked up in time to see Draco rise from picking something off the floor, glaring at all who dared stare at him. He places a silver knife on the table and folds his arms across his chest, slouching down on the bench and waiting for the house elves to bring some fresh cutlery.

Well, really. I could have told him that stabbing at his plate like that, the knife would go sliding out of his control. I could have told him. But he wouldn't have listened, and I'd have only have interrupted his nice private sulk. I'm fond of Draco, but I'm well aware of his faults. Let Crabbe and Goyle get their heads snapped off when they ask questions. I'm not going to catch his wrath. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

The Slytherin common room is really much more comfortable than it seems. I remember coming here on my first night and thinking that I'd never be comfortable, but actually it's quite nice. It just looks hard. And that's really Slytherin House - not what it seems, ever. For example, given our reputation, Slytherin is really awfully soft, perhaps too much so. I believe we should protect our own, but not too much. The younger ones are never going to learn if they're coddled and cosseted and allowed to be crybabies - Professor Snape knows that full well. But some of the older students insist on pandering to the young ones who have been tormented by the Big Bad Gryffindors for the terrible crime of being Sorted here. And when the young ones go to bed, the older ones stay up, find a nice spot in the common room and trade information far too freely. 

Not that I'm complaining about that. Makes my life easier. I'm not like that Mudblood Granger, madly striving to make up for a lack of pureblood heritage by knowing everything - or trying to. One would almost think she was a Hufflepuff, with the amount of work she does - that she _likes_ to do! I just sit back and think, and wait for confirmation of my thoughts to come to me. If that means gaining plain Passes, instead of High Distinctions, and catching people with their guard down - well, it's a trade that is worth it. A pass is still a pass, after all, and inside information can get you a lot of things. Especially in Slytherin.

And I get it. I've made sure of that, that people don't worry about speaking in front of me. Get up two hours early every morning, then spend that time in front of the mirror. You'll soon learn everything you like, even if you're as ugly as sin - or worse, poor Millie Bulstrode. Even Draco believes that shallow, silly Pansy couldn't possibly have an original thought in her carefully-primped head. After all, she's barely passing Ancient Runes by the skin of her teeth! So, because she's not academic, and likes to look good... why, of course she's stupid. And I'll let him believe that. Mother always taught me that it's useful if your husband doesn't know how clever you really are - and Draco would make a most handsome and useful husband. Plus, as I said, I quite like him, really. 

Oddly enough, Crabbe and Goyle, who aren't exactly bright themselves, seem to be the only ones that have guessed that there's anything behind the makeup - except for Professor Snape, and Dumbledore. Maybe they see me using their tactics. It's the same in principle, but slightly different in application. Crabbe and Goyle really are thick - and they know it. And they play to it magnificently, making themselves seem even stupider. Draco's bodyguards. The brainless brawn. And they go along quite well with Draco most of the time - though I don't doubt that it's because he looks after them as much as they look after him. A strange, symbiotic friendship, but it works. 

Speaking of which, I can see Crabbe and Goyle slowly working on their homework on one of the far desks - but no Draco in sight to help them. Odd, that. By the look on Goyle's face, he's doing the research essay for Charms. The joys of Latin translations, when he has enough trouble reading English. He can't help it if he's dyslexic. The fact that he's managed to make it this far is due mainly to the masses of tutoring given him by Professor Snape and by Draco. And usually Zabini, Millicent or I will look over his shoulder and help him if we happen to be around. 

Like I said - Slytherin looks after its own. 

Speaking of that...

"You're looking for the _Virisunt_ charm, Goyle - begins with a V, not an F."

With a grunt that could be roughly translated as thanks, he flips the book to the correct section. Good thing that I know Goyle. He isn't being rude, he just can't afford to lose his concentration until he finishes writing down the carefully-constructed sentence in his head, or he'll lose the whole thing. 

"Hey, Pansy," Crabbe manages a slightly more coherent greeting as he scribbles down his last lot of Care Of Magical Creatures homework. It isn't as though it's going to be marked or anything - Hagrid's blubbering enough for Weasley and anyone else besides, in no fit state to grade homework; but then again, Crabbe hates leaving things half-done.

"Crabbe, where's Draco?"

He looks up at me. "Out on the Quidditch pitch, I think. He had his broom and his flying gear - said he wanted to go out there alone." He shrugged. "Dunno if it was a good idea to let him, but he'd have busted our heads if we'd tried to follow him."

Goyle puts his quill down and studies me for a moment. I'm taken aback a little by the fierce single-minded concentration that still lingers in his eyes. If only people knew that Goyle puts as much sheer effort into his work as any Ravenclaw... "He's been out there well over an hour by now."

They don't have to say anything else, and they know it, so they go back to their work, knowing that I'll go to check on him for them. And damn them for knowing that I'm curious - and wary - enough about Draco's behaviour to actually go. Damn them for being right about me when even Perfect Potter was wrong.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It's dark out on the pitch, but not too dark yet, and the Snitch automatically gains a faint glow in darkness - how else would Quidditch matches continue if the Snitch wasn't caught before sunset? There's also just enough light from the castle, and from a few dim torches around the pitch itself, to watch a fiercely swooping figure on the field - especially if you slide into a sliver of shadow under one of the stands.

The Snitch flies loose from Draco's hand, and he waits for it to get far away from him before tearing mercilessly after it like a bat out of hell, following it despite all its dancing out of his hand at the last second, like a lone predator bearing down on a firefly. 

I love watching him fly. He doesn't have quite the same talent Potter had for being a Seeker, but he shares the same love of the airborne chase - and it shows in his flight. Used to show in Potter's flight.

And now, it's conspicuously absent.

Time and time again, he catches the Snitch, only to let it go and try again. And again. 

Then, after catching it one last time, he positively throws the golden ball away from him with a vengeance. Diving down to the ground in a passable Wronski Feint, he dismounts from the broom and flings it furiously down onto the grass. Hair mussed and face contorted, he screams to the sky, the enraged shout echoing all over the grounds.

"DAMN you, Potter! I wasn't FINISHED with you yet!"

~*~*~*~*~*~

It's no use tossing and turning, thinking about it any more tonight - no more information is likely to come to me in the dark silence, and without that information, it's doubtful any answers will. But all the same, I do wish I knew. But without knowing what went on inside his head...

I need inside information. And I'm never going to get it. 

Poor Draco. He wasn't finished with Potter - but one way or the other, Potter was finished with all of us. 

END.

*******************************

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Okay! To answer some questions I've been asked regarding this fic:

1) Yes, I am continuing this fic - there's no way it's going to leave me alone until I write it. There will be MANY more chapters coming along, okay? Don't be surprised if this fic reaches a chapter 20, because I've got more than enough characters tapping me on the shoulder and saying that they want to say something.

2) I have made a promise to myself to try and get this fic finished before _Order Of The Phoenix_ is released, which means that hopefully, chapters will be updated more frequently than they have been. Hopefully. No promises, okay?

3) Yes, Harry gets his own POV, at the end. His will be the very last chapter - so when you reach Harry's chapter, you'll know I'm finished, okay? 

4) No, I don't take requests. Sorry. =) Just saying "Do This Next" in a review won't convince me. By that I mean that if I want to write a certain POV, I'll be writing it my own way. I will NOT be writing Hermione or Ginny, I will NOT be writing any 'shipper chapters. I will be writing Snape POV and Remus POV chapters, but only because they've got something to say about other people too. If you want a 'shipper chapter or something, I'm afraid you're simply going to have to do without, except in your own imaginations. That's what fanfic is for - to inspire. If you want to email me about a certain POV, that's fine, but I make no promises that you'll get it, or that it will be what you wanted. Again, sorry. =) 


	9. Pay The Piper

PAY THE PIPER.

Standard Disclaimer: JKR's. Not mine. Duh fish. 

See chapter one for summary and rating, see end of chapter eight for most recent author notes. Hagrid's POV, set right after chapter five (Trelawney's POV).

Author's Note: In answer to the most-asked question about this fic - The events are set at the end of Harry's fifth year. Just before the school year ends, and in the case of Percy's chapter, the summer afterwards. That help? Good. 

*******************************

A little wooden flute. Carved it meself, especially for Harry's tiny hands - small hands, even for an eleven-year-old. Ruddy Dursleys. Gave it to him for his first Christmas at Hogwarts.

And now Harry's given it back to me.

When yeh give a gift, yeh don't expect to get it back. Definitely never this way.

The professor's holding it now, turning it over and over in his hands. Professor Snape, that is. He dragged me back here to my hut after dinner - grateful to him for that, I am. He was right - 'taint no good to upset people more by shouting at Trelawney, though she'd have deserved it. Looks like a praying mantis, sounds like a mosquito, and hurt the kids worse than a wasp.

She would'a deserved it, all right - but it won't help Ron none to yell at her. Won't help Hermione neither, nor anyone else. Would only disappoint Dumbledore, Professor Snape said. Great man, Dumbledore.

Yeh're still staring at Harry's flute, Professor. Stroking it with those thin, potion-stained fingers. Even sniffing at it carefully. Why are yeh staring at it so hard? What is it that yeh see? Or is it something that yeh're looking for?

Whatever it was, yeh don't look too happy about finding it - or not finding it. Yeh hand it back carefully, putting yer distance up again. I'd forgotten how small it was in me big hands. Surprised I managed to carve it without breaking it, truth be told. 

"I didn't know Potter played the flute." 

"Hm? Oh, I don' think he does- I mean, did. Think he mighta been tone-deaf; I know his father was."

The eyebrow goes up. So yeh're surprised to hear that, are yeh, Severus? "I wasn't aware that Potter - either of them - were tone-deaf; though in James Potter's case I really ought to have guessed." Remembering an old trick, judging by the look on yer face - I've been at Hogwarts since before yeh were born, and I know yeh well enough by now, student, teacher an' man. "But if he didn't play this flute, why is it polished?"

"Well, I put varnish on it to stop splinters going in his fingers, same as wands get." As if I'da' given Harry a present that could hurt him!

"I realise that, Hagrid." I hate it when yeh put on that dry voice - really makes yeh see why all the kids get aggravated about Potions. "But there's a further polish on this flute - not wand polish, either." 

"Mus' be broom polish. He always had plenty o' that. He loved flying, loved his broom. Took good care of it." It was always lovely to watch Harry fly; he belonged up there. That Creevey boy in my fourth year Care of Magical Creatures class gave me a few photographs of him flying, and a couple of others besides; one of Harry having a cuppa with me, one of him, Ron and Hermione, one with him holding his ruined arm after that game with the tampered Bludger - and if I ever get a hold of whoever did **_that_**, they'll wish they were a dead man. It coulda killed him.

I'm grateful to young Creevey for his gift to me - right thoughtful, that was. I never was much of a one for keeping photographs - had to write to all James and Lily's old friends to get hold of enough snaps for the little album I gave him, after the incident with the Stone and all. I shoulda been thrown out for telling things I shouldn't have, nearly getting Harry killed meself, but instead Dumbledore let me take the day off to make the album as nice as I could for him. You shoulda seen his face when he saw it - like someone who saw somethin' beautiful for the first time ever in their life. 

I didn't have no photographs of James and Lily of my own to give to Harry - I shoulda learned from that and gotten some photographs _of_ Harry while I had the chance. But I didn't. Now I only have a few from someone else, in a little heap on the table next to the teapot. 

"Ah. Broom polish. That would be the smell, yes." Yeh always had a sensitive nose, Severus - a better sense of smell than Fang, I think sometimes. No wonder yeh went inta potions. No wonder yer nose is all scrunched up now.

"Broom polish ain't so bad, Severus."

"No, just too bloody strong." Ah, don't yeh know yeh're too young to try and act like an old grouch? Or maybe it ain't so much that yeh're young, but more of me getting older. I _am_ nearly seventy, after all, and yeh're only just thirty-six. To me yeh're in the prime of yer life, nobbut a child almost. Guess yeh feel older, though - we're all feelin' older. And the kids shouldn't be that old, but fer that Trelawney - 

"Speaking of strong, Hagrid... you wouldn't happen to have something to drink on hand, would you?" What? _Oh._ I should've thought of that. Rotten hospitality. I shake me head to clear it of angry thoughts. 

"Oh yes, I do. Er... tea, coffee, or summat stronger yet?" I don't have no scotch handy though, which is what the professor likes. Only got some ale, and the Ogden's Firewhiskey.

"Stronger yet. And don't worry - whatever you have will do nicely, thank you," with a raised hand.

I scratch my head, a bit embarrassed. Ogden's is good stuff, but it ain't a refined drink fer a refined man like Severus. Still, he did say it would do... Now, I definitely put them somewhere -

"Er, Hagrid, really, you don't need to give me any cakes - after all, I just ate at supper; the drink alone will be sufficient." 

"Oh. All right, then." I turn to put them back in the cupboard. "It's just that I made them t'other week for Ha- fer the kids in case they came to visit, and they'll go terrible hard and stale soon if they aren't eaten..." Would yeh look at me, sniffing over a plate of rock cakes like a big baby? Harry would be right ashamed of me.

A sigh. "You have a point, Hagrid. I'd hate for them to... become... hard. Bring them and the bottle over here, then." 

I forgot - he can't stand the thought of waste. "I din' mean teh make yeh feel obligated or nothin', Professor-"

"I know that, Hagrid. Now sit _down_, for heaven's sakes. Tell me more about these photographs." 

Setting the cakes and the Firewhiskey bottle down, I quickly grab two mugs and pour the Firewhiskey. Handin' one of the mugs over to Severus gets me a grunt o' thanks and I sit down, picking up the photograph on the top of the pile. "Ah. Yeh might remember this one, Severus - it were righ' after Dumbledore announced I were t' become a teacher, an' Harry, Ron an Hermione all ran up t' congratulate me..." Thirteen years old in that picture, and still so small - even more so next to a great lump like me. 

"Mmm, yes, I remember. Of course, I recall that most people were quite pleased for you at that time - even some of my own House were." Which is Severus' way of saying that he was pleased for me too. "If I recall, that was soon after we had an alert that Potter had escaped from his family's home after inflating his Muggle aunt..."

"Oh, aye. That were a worryin' few hours, weren't it? I told Harry off for worrying us so - not sayin' nothin' about **_why_**, o' course. Still, it were accidental magic; he dinnae do it on purpose, and then he thought he'd get expelled for not havin' any control over it. I could see why he felt he had no choice but to run. He told me he could never bear it when she visited..."

"Visited? I thought he lived with his Muggle aunt; that is, Lily's Muggle sister and her husband?" 

"Oh, aye, he did live with them. This was the husband's sister that he inflated. An' she was jus' like her brother, if not worse. Tellin' a thirteen-year-old that 'is parents deserved t' die for bein' drunk-drivers, hittin' a five-year-old with a walking stick - I'd'a hit **_her_**!"

"What?" 

"Aye, 'twas dreadful. Bad enough Dursley himself just made him go without food or new clothes, an' Lily's sister made him work round the place like a house-elf..."

"Hagrid... What. The. Bloody. Hell. Are. You. Talking. About?"

Eh? His face is all confused and... he din' know? "Well, the Dursleys - that is, his aunt and uncle - they told him that his parents died in a car crash, an' they made him sleep in the cupboard under the stairs fer a bedroom 'til his Hogwarts letter came. He did half the housework, only got his lump o'lard cousin's hand-me-down clothes, got locked up with hardly any food for the least thing... and the aunt he blew up, she'd whack him round with her stick and insult him and his parents righ' t' his face... an' his cousin used tae hit him till he thought that Harry coul' hex him in return." 

"But Albus - Potter was supposed to be safe there - "

"Well... I suppose Professor Dumbledore had his reasons. I delivered him to that awful house as a baby, and Dumbledore himself placed him on the step. Said something about not wantin' Harry to grow up in the wizard world because he'd get all overwhelmed by his past before he had a chance to choose who he was by himself - or something like that. An' anyway, I guess livin' there made him tough; when I came t' get Harry, he came forward and iden'ified himself when I'd mistaken his cousin fer him - but he din' know that I meant no harm, y'know? He was protectin' his great puddin' of a cousin, Heaven knows why."

"I... see."

A sloshing sound brings me out of me sad thoughts - Severus is refilling his mug with Firewhiskey. I shoulda' been the one to do that - terrible host, I am. Ah, well, I can give him a cake still... Severus himself always tells me ta eat if'n I'm going tae drink, as it helps or somethin'.

"...Thanks for the reminder, Hagrid. Yes, just, put it down there..." 

Might have another dram meself... nothin' quite beats Ogden's Firewhiskey... 

~*~*~*~*~*~

"...And this one is?" A frown crosses his features. "Stupid bloody Lockhart, get out of the way, I can't see a damn thing..."

Young Creevey musta given me more photos than I thought - I'd say too many, but there 'taint no such thing as too many photos of Harry no more. No more Harry. Just more Harry photos.

"Lockhart? Ah, tha' stupid bloke tried tae fix Harry's broken arm when that Bludger went crazy and wouldn't leave him be. Ended up takin' all the bones out instead o' helpin' him." 

"Oh, yes. Incompetent moron. Wish I'd hexed him through the wall in the Duelling Club - but the Headmaster would've killed me. For doing a service to all wizards, no justice." Severus scowled at the picture when poor Harry winced as Lockhart manhandled his arm as he prepared to show off. "I _still_ don't know who fixed that bloody thing. I knew it was Quirrell pulling that bloody broomstick stunt the year before, but I still don't know who did this. A piss-poor assassination attempt, if that's even what it was..."

"Yeh don' know who it were neither?" I woulda thought... after a couple o' years an' Severus bein' smarter than me, maybe he'da found out who was behind that rotten trick.

"No," was the gloomy answer as the professor took a large swallow of the Firewiskey and glared at the fire. "I've no idea. I've been wondering, but I never found out for sure, and I wasn't going to ask Potter. I assumed you would have."

I shook me head. "Nah, he had enough tae worry abou' that year - an' so did I, come tae think of it. I never thought t'ask later. I just thought maybe - well, no offense to ye sir, but young Malfoy weren't fond of Harry, and maybe..."

Shaking his hand in an irritated way, Severus said, "No. First people I checked - discreetly, of course. Wasn't any of the Slytherin team. I thought it might've been Lockhart, making an accident so he could show off by healing The Boy Who Bloody Well Lived, but I don't know for sure."

Looking at a picture where Harry was smilin' and wavin' up at me along with Ron an' Hermione, I sigh, feeling something in me go all flat with despair. "I just don' understan', Severus. You-Know-Who wasn't revived yet; everyone liked Harry. Who coulda hated him enough t' tamper wi' the Bludger? Who coulda ever wanted him dead?" 

"You mean aside from himself?"

... What can I say t' that? I go quiet and so does he. 

I know yeh, Severus. Yeh've been talkative, now yeh want t' be quiet. I'll let yeh be. I know that's what yeh want.

I just wish I'da' known what Harry wanted, so I coulda given it t' him, too. 

END.

*******************************

Next chapter update: by the end of April. I swear. _*pulls out hair*_ I'm really sorry that I'm so slow at updating. 


	10. Drastic Measures

DRASTIC MEASURES.

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter characters and settings all belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not J.K. Rowling. You connect the logic. 

Chapter 10: Minerva McGonagall's POV. Takes place BEFORE Harry's suicide. 

********************************************

Looking down at the slip of parchment in my hand, I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. _Not again..._

**_Dear Minerva,_**

This is about young Harry Potter. I truly don't wish to be a nuisance, but as his Head of House, have you any idea about the motivations behind Mister Potter's behaviour recently? I do realise that lately he's been under enormous pressure with the entire situation with the Dark Lord. However, now that he has managed to set You-Know-Who back for a long time, if not defeat him for good, rather than improving he seems to have taken quite the turn for the worse. 

To be frank, Minerva, he's been acting irresponsibly and unacceptably in my class. Twice he's informed me straight out that he hadn't bothered doing his homework - once in front of the entire class - and his carelessness with the more dangerous charms and his general attitude have forced me to take points from Gryffindor on more than one occasion. I would give him a detention, but I know that Severus has given him several, along with you yourself and many of the other teaching staff. From what I can garner, none seem to be having the desired effect. I tried talking with him myself, but he will not open up to me. Perhaps you can reach him where I could not?

Sincerely, Filius. 

__

Not another one... This was the third formal complaint about Mister Potter's behaviour in two weeks. And from Filius Flitwick, of all people! The mildest-mannered man you could hope to meet, Filius is probably second only to Hagrid in his tolerance levels for student behaviour. If he'd reached the point of complaint; well, it wasn't a pleasant thing to consider. 

"Professor?"

Ah, yes. Whatever Mister Potter has done to warrant yet another complaint from a teacher, there's still the lesson to attend to. Second-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. "Yes, Miss Branstone?" 

"I'm sorry Professor, but I can't seem to get it right - it's sort of stuck..."

Indeed it is. Trapped halfway between being a frog and an inkwell, the... amalgamation lets out an unhappy croak before I set it to rights and explain the procedure once more to the girl.

Fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins are next, in any case. I'll be able to have a word with young Harry after the class. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Well, Mister Potter, what have you to say about this?"

He takes the note carelessly, sulkily, and stares briefly at it before shrugging. "He's exaggerating."

"I doubt that very much, Mister Potter. I've known Filius Flitwick for quite some time now, and I assure you that he would not exaggerate an account of bad behaviour in his class. On the contrary, he would minimise it."

Another shrug is the only answer I receive, and a surge of irritation swells up within me. "Mister Potter, your recent change attitude has not gone unnoticed by any of the staff. Even the Headmaster has commented on it." There - was that a glint of something in his eye? "I am aware that your recent struggle the Dark Lord must have been..." How on earth does one describe an event which is no less life-shattering for its regularity? "...Terribly difficult, to say the least." I am interrupted by a snort - a **snort**! That boy... **why** won't he let us in? "However, since you refuse to talk to anyone about the incident, we cannot help you if you refuse to help yourself." Folding his arms, he stares at the floor, mouth twisted. 

Poor child. He really has too much on his shoulders - but I cannot permit him to think that his behaviour is acceptable or tolerable. 

"I understand that you must feel pressured by responsibilities-"

"You don't understand anything, Professor. With all due respect, you haven't a clue."

I may well be fond of the boy, but I am also his teacher, and there are limits to what I will permit... "Then perhaps I should ensure you have as little stress as possible by relieving you from your Quidditch responsibilities until further notice?"

"No!" And now his eyes are up, burning with that familiar fire - only more desperate, more edged. "No. Please. I... I'll apologise to Professor Flitwick. Just... let me play Quidditch."

Perhaps that was the wrong route to take - threatening one of the few things that has ever given him release from reality - but then again, it seems to have had the desired effect.

"Very well. For now, I'll keep that in mind. I'll be watching your behaviour, Mister Potter, and I expect to hear from Professor Flitwick himself that you apologised and that your behaviour in class improves. Apologies and improvements in your other classes would not go astray either." 

His shoulders slump. "Very well, Professor," he mutters glumly. "May I go to dinner now?"

"You may."

Watching as he hands the note back, then stuffs his notes for this lesson into his bag, I catch a glimpse of the parchment. Nothing but scribbles, and a few words and sentences here and there that make little sense, including 'not your fault'.

__

Odd. I presume he's referring to the battle with Voldemort, or perhaps the unfortunate Triwizard Tournament incident last year, but shouldn't that be 'not my fault'?

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Sher-"

"No, Albus. No sherbet lemons. No tea. No sweets of any sort. No **stalling**, for the love of all that's magical. I want a word with you regarding Harry Potter!"

Albus puts his sweet down, uneaten. Thank goodness for that. I don't fancy trying to talk to him while he's sucking on that dreadful thing. "You are not the only one, Minerva. Severus has been growling at my doorstep for several days now. As have many of the other members of staff."

__

He **what**? "Severus has no business to be growling about MY students when his own behaviour at that age was far worse, with far less provocation!" I inform Albus tartly, bristling.

"Of course, Minerva." Oh, you infernal, **twinkling** old man! Stop that! You've changed the subject, and I hate that I fell for it. Again.

"Albus, I have come here because Harry Potter needs immediate help, of a type I cannot seem to provide. Two weeks, I had a word with him regarding the copious amount of complaints I'd received as his Head of House - the most recent one from Filius. He seemed angry and unrepentant until I threatened to remove him from the Quidditch team. He agreed to improve, and all the teachers reported moderate improvement in courtesy, if not in his grades - but now he has withdrawn completely. He's totally apathetic. Nothing seems to get through to him. He isn't even pretending to work in class any more. It's as if he believes that the O.W.Ls are of no importance whatsoever - and that's the least of it! I removed him from the Quidditch team, and his only response was a resigned shrug. A **shrug**, Albus! I can understand him giving up on his studies, even at such a critical juncture - but his Quidditch?!"

Albus nods at me, thoughtful. "I don't suppose his friends would be able to shed any light on the subject?"

"No." I sigh and take the cup of tea that has been near my hand since this interview began. Might as well drink it. "Not a thing. It's the first thing I tried - discreetly, of course. I didn't want to worry them. They seem to believe it's a combination of the aftereffects of the battle and the imminent return to that dreadful Muggle house. I don't think they're holding anything back from me - if it is anything else that disturbs him so, they know nothing of it." Wait a minute... "I don't suppose he's confided in you, has he?"

A sad smile is my answer. "Shrewd, Minerva, but unfortunately incorrect. Harry has not chosen me as a confidante at this time. We can only assume that he is doing what he always has done - holding his secrets to himself. Perhaps it is time we told him... but no, such a burden to give the boy. Unimaginable at this stage."

I can't help the shudder that goes up my spine. "Good Lord, no, Albus. He'd never cope with - that. Not now, at any rate. Perhaps in a few years time..." 

"...And in the meantime, we can only protect him as best we can," Albus concludes, standing up and finally popping that awful sweet into his mouth. "Speaking of the meantime, Minerva, perhaps he'd feel less alone if he were aware of more of his familial relations?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

"I suppose you're wondering why I've summoned you to my office, Mister Potter?" The young man in question stares down at his feet, shuffling his shoe against my rug in a most unbecoming way.

"I did, a little, yes. What is it, Professor?"

I can't help but sigh. "Harry, please be aware that I had not intended to tell you this - at least, not at this point. If it had become public knowledge, it would have been greatly difficult to refute any suggestions of favouritism in my part. So what I tell you now must be in strictest confidence, do you understand?"

I seem to have piqued his curiosity a little, as he looks at me - properly - for the first time since entering the room. "Yes, I understand, Professor. But what is it?"

"Harry... you are, of course, aware that you have a godfather." A scornful look. Well, really, I couldn't expect anything else. It must sound like such a ridiculously obvious statement to him. "What you may not be aware of is the fact that your father's side of the family does have certain relatives left, mainly in families into which they married. Including the McGonagall family."

That certainly provoked a reaction from him. "You... you're related to me?" 

"Yes, Harry, although very distantly. The link is several generations back, and we are not related by blood, but merely by marriage. Nevertheless, you see now why I could not tell you when you were younger - accusations of favouritism would have run rampant, and made your life even more difficult. Especially with Professor Snape." A rueful smile twitches the edges of his mouth at this point. "It was not public knowledge that I was distantly related to your father - I certainly did not favour him. In fact, it was rather the opposite - I held him to a much higher standard than other students. As I tend to hold you to a higher standard."

He seems to be absorbing the information, slowly. "Is that why you let me get onto the Quidditch team in first year? Because I was your great-great-something-in-law, or whatever I am to you?"

"Good heavens, no! You should know me better than that by now!" A muttered apology greets my ears and I sigh, realising my outburst of professional pride undid some of the progress I'd just made. "I talked Albus into bending the rule because you were, quite simply, the best natural talent at your age that I had ever seen in a Seeker - and bear in mind, I was here when Charlie Weasley led us to victory several years running." I can't help the slight smile that touches my lips as I remember that. "And when your father did the same, years before that. He would have been most proud of your accomplishments, as is your godfather. As am I."

Finally, I am rewarded with a small smile. "Thank you, Professor. Um... I understand where the place on the team came from now, but what about the Nimbus 2000? Who paid for that?"

"Dismissed, Mister Potter." A little grin graces his face and he slips out. Leaving another ragged, used piece of parchment behind. Silly boy. I pick up the roll and head towards the door, shaking my head and staring at the messy parchment that practically screams 'TEENAGER!'. I know I have a fond smile on my face, but oh well. _I never married, yet here I am, picking up after family... _"I never had to do this sort of thing for James..."

His eyes. He came back for his parchment and his **_eyes_**, white as a ghost as he snatches the parchment oh God he **_heard_** me...

"Harry!"

But he is gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~

****

"Minerva!"

__

uh?

****

"MINERVA!"

"Wha..." Shaking my head, I try to pry open my eyes. What time is it? "Albus? Wh... What's the time?" 

"It's three o'clock. Minerva, we-"

"Three o'clock! In the morning!" Instantly I'm bolt upright in bed, shoving off the sheets. The last time Albus disturbed me in my sleep, Colin Creevey had been Petrified... but he isn't here personally, it's only a message via fireplace... "Albus, what is it? Couldn't it wait until the morning?" 

"I'm afraid not." _Blast it all, Albus; stop your voice from wobbling. I just finished marking ten thousand essays and I've only had two hours' sleep. I can't cope with this._ "Minerva, dear, you'd best sit down. It's about Harry..."

"Oh, Merlin." I got dragged out of bed because he got caught wandering around after curfew again? "I'll kill him. What is it that he's done now?"

END.

********************************************


	11. Blessed

BLESSED.

Disclaimer: Er, do I really need one? Oh, okay... Harry Potter and its characters don't belong to me; they belong to the talented J.K. Rowling. All hail She-Who-Must-Not-Stop-Writing!

Warnings: Read the previous chapters. 

Credits: Elton John owns the song _Blessed_, which I use in this fic. Thanks also go to Pale Rider, who was the inspiration behind Harry's full first name. *grin*

Chapter Eleven: Remus Lupin has some thinking to do, and some things to put away. 

*******************************

_Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them_. Slide that one into the bookshelf, next to _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 5)_ and _A History of Magic_.

Quidditch robes. Hang them up in the cupboard, next to the school uniform.

His wand. Smooth. No chips or even any fingerprints. Doesn't look like it went to Hell and back and took him with it, does it? Lay that one on the desk. 

The Firebolt. Lean that up on the broom rack that Sirius bought, the one in the corner. 

It really is a lovely room. Navy blue and white, it's simple and tastefully done - I wouldn't have thought that Padfoot would have had the decorating sense, or the restraint, to do such a nice job of it. But he did. He really wanted Harry to like everything about the first real bedroom of his own, from the large bed with a thick navy-coloured quilt, to the big desk, spacious cupboards and brand-new soft carpeting on the floor. It really is a perfect room for Harry. It even has Harry's things in it now, doesn't it? Courtesy of Albus, who sent them along. 

It has everything of Harry's in it, but it will never have Harry in it. 

Well, I'd better keep going. These won't put themselves away. Let's see... a pair of green dress robes...

~*~*~*~*~*~

I should have known. Albus should have known. We all should have known. The look on his face should have told us.

He'd fought against the Dark Lord again - he hadn't managed to destroy the monster, but really, bringing down a powerful, sadistic genocidal creature such as Voldemort is too much to expect of a child. Everyone in the wizarding world seemed happy enough to let him march off and do it though - and I allowed it to pass unchallenged, because Harry had proven himself so many times over in the few years I'd known him... 

He couldn't destroy the serpent, but he could cut the head from the body. He did this quite cleverly - after the disaster of the Triwizard Tournament, Dumbledore himself had given him lessons all year about how to make a Portkey himself, in order to get out of danger. When Voldemort kidnapped him again, Harry took the idea one step further, and rather than escaping, he hid long enough to make several Portkeys out of small things like pebbles, buttons from his clothing, and so forth. Then he used his wand and a simple _Wingardium Leviosa_ to flick them directly at all the senior Death Eaters - with his Seeker-honed aim, only a few managed to dodge. Even MacNair, the main Ministry contact, was unmasked, so to speak. 

Harry did magnificently - he managed to battle the enraged Dark Lord after divesting him of most of his helpers, including one Peter Pettigrew, who Harry brought back personally and placed directly into Auror hands. And the Aurors did their job well - even a furious Fudge could not deny that he was alive, nor prevent the Daily Prophet from running a very long, very explosive story about the results of Wormtail being interrogated, under Veritaserum, about the true identity of the traitorous Secret Keeper and the resurrection of Voldemort. 

Sirius was officially pardoned and had been given lavish financial recompense for his thirteen years in Azkaban for a crime he hadn't committed - though Fudge cleverly managed to deduct a lot of it with the fact that Sirius had illegally escaped from lawful custody, wrongfully imprisoned or not. Still, Sirius was now a free man, and Voldemort had been forced into hiding to regroup and gather enough strength to strike again. And this time there had been no deaths. Free from both Voldemort and with Sirius free, the Dursleys would be nothing but a memory in a year's time at most. Harry should have been happy.

Sirius was so happy, so excited - I was, too. He bought a house around the edge of Wizarding London, near Diagon Alley, bullied me into moving in (not that I needed much persuading) and for weeks he waited eagerly for the third bedroom to be occupied. With Sirius as his legal guardian, I knew that Harry would finally get the proper care every child deserves, and I would finally be welcome to be part of Harry's life, to see him as he grew. Sirius roped me in, regarding my single year of teaching as a veritable oracle of knowledge regarding teenagers in general and Harry in particular. I think he chose the house solely because he thought Harry would like it there.

When the letter came from Minerva saying that Harry's work had slipped considerably, and that his attitude had become unacceptable, neither of us were overly worried. After all, hadn't a similar thing happened at the end of the TriWizard Tournament? Besides, the sheer amount of Ministry paperwork involved in signing the care of the Boy-Who-Lived over to a convicted murderer, guilty or not, resulted in miles of red tape that took up the majority of Sirius' time. He was trying to get Dumbledore to push it through the Ministry, but as it was, it seemed like Harry would be spending the entire summer at the Dursley's and then at the Burrow, just as he always had.

Still, Sirius made Dumbledore promise that he wouldn't tell Harry about the possibility of getting it through early. "I want it to be a pleasant surprise for him if we can get it early," he told us at the time, earnestly. "Besides, two years ago I promised him he could live with me, and I had to break that promise just a few hours later. I don't want to raise his hopes unfairly again." 

I wish we had, now. We should have given him some hope, false or not. Should have given him something to look forward to, something to live for. 

Because apparently Harry was all Padfoot had to live for. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

_"...I'm telling you, Moony, he'll like this. Now come on, will you help me move this desk or not?"_

"Padfoot, not to criticise your decorating skills or anything - you've done a much better job at it than I ever thought you would -"

"Hey!" A pillow comes in my direction. Really, he's so predictable sometimes.

"...but don't you think that maybe, just maybe, it might have been a good idea to ask Harry before you went off and decorated his room? I mean, he's a GRYFFINDOR, Sirius. Why the Ravenclaw décor? What's wrong with red?"

Sirius squirmed like a kid caught with both fists in the cookie jar. Oh bugger. I had once again unwittingly wielded my 'authority' on Harry's preferences. (How was I supposed to know if Harry preferred strawberry jam to marmalade? Just because I saw him at breakfast in the Great Hall from the Teacher's Table...) 

"I just wanted him to have a room that was nice right from the start, even if it wasn't his first choice at decorating, at least it would be somewhere nice for him to sleep for the first few nights... Does he like red, Moony?"

"I don't know - but I don't know if he likes blue, either! He's a teenager, and this is his first room that he could call his own - what if he wants to decorate it himself, or just plain doesn't like it the way it is now?"

"Then we'll just re-decorate it together - hey, that's an idea! Maybe I should make it all Slytherin green and silver and then we can redecorate it to his choice when he gets here!"

"...I don't think so." Privately I doubted if Harry would say anything, even if the room wasn't to his tastes at all - it wasn't his style. 

"Moony, you have absolutely NO sense of adventure - besides, imagine his face..."

"Sirius? Remus?" The unmistakable voice of Albus Dumbledore came from the living room, catching us both somewhat by surprise. 

"We're in Harry's room, Albus," Sirius shouted. "Look, could you come in here and tell us whether Harry will like this room or not?"

He did come in. And we learned that Harry would never like the room, because he would never see it. 

And Sirius screamed. Just the once.

And he's barely spoken since.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He's listening to that bloody Muggle song again. How in Merlin's name am I supposed to get this packing done if he won't turn it off? His mother was a Muggle, so Sirius knows enough about Muggle things that confuse the hell out of me. He's gotten that See-Dee player in some kind of loop and I don't know how to turn it off, short of pulling the plug or exploding it. Which is frankly very tempting. It might actually get a bloody reaction out of him for once.

I recognise the song, of course. Lily, being Muggleborn, had a great appreciation for Muggle music. She used to play it all the time, although she used these great big black discs and a different kind of player with a needle in it. And when she was pregnant, she played this one song over and over. And when Harry was born. And at his first birthday party.

I used to like this song, even when Lily played it ad nauseum. I hate it now. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

__

"Ow!"

James was up and jumping over the table in an instant. "What is it, Lil?" The rest of us were jolted out of our uneasy glances at one another to focus on the mother-to-be.

"Lily?" Peter asked, looking nervous, as he always did. "What...?"

"It... kicked. It kicked! Our baby kicked!"

A huge cheer went up in the kitchen - we almost deafened each other. No one had known, but Lily had actually just started to suspect that she was pregnant even as she took her N.E.W.T.s - however, either she miscarried early, or it was a false alarm. Either way, Lily had been surprisingly despondent about it - James had been sad, but also undeniably relieved. She told me later that her greatest fear was that this somehow meant that she was infertile, or incapable of carrying children. That until before then, she hadn't thought about children in relation to herself and James except for 'oh, how cute, maybe in five or ten years time', and now all of a sudden she was desperate to have a child while she could. James was pleased to hear about Lily's pregnancy, especially when it was confirmed this time, but he couldn't have been half as happy as Lily was. She gave the term 'glowing' a whole new meaning. 

And she played that song. 

****

Hey you, you're a child in my head  
You haven't walked yet  
Your first words have yet to be said  
But I swear you'll be blessed

****

I know you're still just a dream  
Your eyes might be green  
Or the bluest that I've ever seen  
Anyway you'll be blessed

Harry always wanted a family - Lily wanted Harry to have almost as many siblings as the Weasley children have. We think that Harry's little brother or sister may have died with her that Halloween night. It was too soon to tell for sure. 

I remember when the three of us were finally allowed to see Harry, after the birth. Lily looked in bad shape. James looked worse. Knowing Lily's tongue, none of us were that surprised. We'd heard scraps of it from the waiting room, and it hadn't been pretty. A stranger would never have suspected that such a gentle woman would have such an extensive vocabulary...

__

"I have a son." James was in a daze. "A beautiful baby son."

"You would say that," Lily grumbled from the bed. "The doctor said he'd look just like you."

"And your point is?"

Ignoring their banter, we all rushed to the crib at the side of the room. And we all took a great big gasp in unison. 

There was a... thing in the crib that vaguely resembled a baby, but it wasn't white and soft and sweet with feathery dark hair like James'. It was red and wet and sticky and looked like it had a huge bald head in proportion to the rest of it. Peter yelped and stepped back. I had to swallow a wince. 

"What the...?" Sirius muttered. "Moony! Is this kid... normal?"

Unfortunately, Lily heard. And she wasn't best pleased to hear that assessment.

It wasn't the world's best start in life for a godfather/godson relationship - particularly as all five if us knew there was a traitor inside and I, for one, suspected Sirius, simply because I couldn't imagine Peter as having the balls to do any such thing. But of course, not being experts in children, especially newborns, we soon learned how stupid we were. Harry did indeed grow into a beautiful baby, and then into a striking young man with Lily's vivid eyes and wide smile. 

I remember waking up on the Hogwarts Express, the year Sirius escaped from Azkaban, to see several frightened children huddling over a pale, still body on the floor. My first thought was _James_ and then _no, can't be, it must be Harry!_ Mustering the memory of his first birthday party, where we danced around and held him and temporarily forgot that there was a traitor amongst us, I repelled the Dementors then turned back to the unconscious form on the floor. 

I will never forget the flood of emotion that came over me when those eyes opened, showing not James' dancing blue, but Lily's flashing green. But neither James nor Lily had had a gaze that had been both so innocent yet so _old..._ Quickly giving him and his friends some chocolate, I watched him carefully all the rest of the journey, and tried to convince myself that it was just a Dementor aftershock that had left his eyes that way.

More fool me. 

I became very fond of Harry over the year. Very fond. I taught him the Patronus charm - and was stunned to see Prongs leap from his wand during a Quidditch match, charging some fake Dementors even as Harry himself charged for the snitch. I watched him defend his parent's murderer, with wisdom no thirteen-year-old should have to have developed. I watched his friends protect him so fiercely, and I grew to know what it was about him that ignited that in people. Clever but not academic, talented but modest, gentle but determined - he was everything good about his parents, and _more_. If anyone could have taken Voldemort down, this boy was the one. He was unique amongst his generation, and his parents would have been so very, very proud.

I wish I could have known him better. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sirius is slumped in the chair in front of the fire. He has been there virtually since we learned that Harry was dead - had killed himself, no less. Sometimes he'll get up, and my heart will jump, and then he shuffles back from the loo and flops back down again and any wild hope I might have had flutters and dies. That's the only time he gets up - and I think that THAT'S only because he has an instinctive aversion to soiling himself as so many others did in Azkaban. He doesn't even get up to eat - I have to bring food to him, and then spoon-feed him if I want him to stay alive. 

And he doesn't talk beyond affirmative or negative grunts. He doesn't care anymore. About anything. 

"Sirius?"

No response. I didn't expect one.

"Sirius, you need a bath. You're beginning to stink again."

No response.

"You'll get as slimy as Snape if you don't bathe."

Nothing. 

I hate forcing him around like a child... but what can I do? So I pick him up and drag him to the bathroom. At least he doesn't fight me. He doesn't care one way or the other. 

Running the bath gives me time to strip his clothes off - it's been a few days since I've been able to force myself to treat him like this and his clothes are practically unsalvagable. Not that that matters. He stinks and he's far too thin, as I lift him up and place him in the full tub, but he doesn't care. And not because he's on the run or bent on something bigger this time. I've never seen apathy on this level; I've never seen Sirius apathetic, ever. This frightens me, and I hate being frightened. It's bad enough that I need to delegate his care to someone during the full moon, without being unable to do it the rest of the time... I'm all he has left...

He's all I have left. The last two Marauders, who failed Prongs utterly. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

I remember when the mediwitch announced that Lily would definitely be having a son. I remember it mainly because James sent Howlers to everyone saying "GET YOUR ARSES OVER HERE - I'M GOING TO HAVE A SON!!" Though he wasn't as impressed an hour or so later...

__

"Lily, come on. You can NOT be serious!"

"No, I'M-"

"Can it, Padfoot. It's MY baby, and I'm naming him!"

"Well, it's my son too, and I'm not saddling him with the stupid name of a stupid Muggle movie star!"

Lily looked insulted. "The name is not stupid! I like it! I told you before that's the name I wanted if it was a boy, you didn't have a problem then!"

"That was before I knew you were serious! I didn't think you actually wanted to name our son after an archaeologist with a whip who calls himself a state in America!!"

"What?" Wormtail and I were bewildered. Once again, Padfoot's half-Muggle heritage came to the fore. 

"Lily! You want to name your baby INDIANA?!" 

"No, I want to name him Harrison. Harry for short."

"Well, Harry's not so bad," Wormtail pointed out reasonably.

"Yeah, but HARRISON??" James was still less than impressed with it, apparently.

"It's better than Henry or Harold, which are the normal names 'Harry' comes from," I mused.

"But," Sirius said, "I thought your first idea was to name a son Anthony?"

"Anthony Potter? I don't know..."

"Or Benjamin? Benjamin Potter sounds nice - you said so yourself, Lily..."

In the end, we had to resort to pulling names in a random lot to quiet them down.

"HARRISON!" Lily read triumphantly, much to James' disgruntlement.

"Oh, well," Sirius comforted him. "At least 'Harry' isn't too bad a name."

We all thought that surely James would be annoyed about it for sure, and desperately campaign for something else. But in the end, he accepted it, partly because we all started talking to the baby and calling him "Harry" instead of "Baby", and by the time he was born there was no way of thinking of him as anything else. 

Not that it mattered. James and Lily were so proud to be parents that they doted on him like mad. Spent time with him, did all the stimulating things to encourage his growth, followed all the parent-child bonding to the letter. How Lily must have spun in her grave to see her own sister treat him as she did. 

****

And you, you'll be blessed  
You'll have the best  
I promise you that  
I'll pick a star from the sky  
Pull your name from a hat  
I promise you that  
Promise you that  
Promise you that  
You'll be blessed

~*~*~*~*~*~

That song is still playing in the background. To hell with it. I have things to do.

_Get the soap. Get the washcloth. Get the-_ "PADFOOT!"

He slipped under the water. Not on purpose, mark you. He just slipped under, and didn't care enough to haul himself back out. 

I care. 

He coughs and chokes when I pull him up, as human bodies do when they've inhaled water. "_Damn_ it, Padfoot! Don't do this to me! I can't handle it alone!"

But I don't know if he cares. Ever since the death of James and Lily, he's defined himself solely by Harry. Harry's godfather. Harry's guardian. Harry's support. 

Now Harry is gone, and there is nothing left of the Sirius that struggled his way out of the depths. 

****

I need you before I'm too old  
To have and to hold  
To walk with you and watch you grow  
And know that you're blessed

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Padfoot?"

Dressed in a bathrobe, slumped again by the fire, he hardly makes a flicker of movement to let me know that he heard me.

Until I drop the box on his feet. Then he jumps.

"These are all Harry's things, Padfoot. I'm tired. I can't do this alone anymore. I know Dumbledore brought them over and you ignored them before, but I can't put them away in Harry's room as if he's coming tomorrow. If you want the rest of Harry's belongings to get the respect they deserve, you do it." The gauntlet is thrown down.

And left down.

"Damn it, Padfoot... doesn't our friendship mean enough for you to at least try?" I don't think my voice has ever been so raspy before, even after a bad full moon. 

There's a long time where there's nothing. 

Then, so slowly, he reaches down into the box.

I can't move. _Please please let him come out of it I can't break the spell now..._

Oh, my God.

Of all the things to pull out of the box.

A knotted, tangled Invisibility Cloak. 

_Albus, what the hell were you thinking putting that in there?!_

Sirius looks at it, this cloth that we used to run to the kitchens under, laughing like mad all the way; this cloth that saved Harry's life more than once; this cloth that took it. 

And, for the second time since we heard - I hear him scream as he throws it with a fury into the fire. Everything else - what precious little there is - is tipped out, and everything that has the vaguest Dursley origin is tossed into the merrily crackling flames as that horrible screaming continues - a long, drawn-out roar of a creature wounded and betrayed in ways it had never before imagined. 

****

And you, you'll be blessed  
You'll have the best  
I promise you that  
I'll pick a star from the sky  
Pull your name from a hat  
I promise you that  
Promise you that  
Promise you that  
You'll be blessed

And I find myself having to duck as the See-Dee player goes flying across the room, into the fire as well, only to have him cry out a moment later, reaching into the flames for that song, that last link to Lily and James. His hands are burning, roasting, but he doesn't care.

I grab him, diving my own hands into the flames to pull his out, and we collapse on the floor. I think we're both crying, but I don't care. I hear his screams in my ears so loud, so loud and he might break my eardrums but I don't care. I know our hands were burning together, are fusing together even now, dead skin melting and cooling to stick together but I don't care. 

Why should I care? Harry betrayed us. He ripped Sirius apart and devastated all his friends and I hear that the Weasleys are all afraid for Ron's very sanity, and he didn't care. He just buggered off without even saying why. Why should I care? What's blood on the new carpet when there's his blood on our hands, and our blood on his? And what's a sore ear compared to the fact that we failed James and Lily again, failed Harry so very very badly that he didn't know that he had choices other than doing this to us? I don't care about my ears. I don't care about the carpet, or about anything except the fact that Padfoot is crying in my arms like a lost child - or a parent with a child that's been lost.

For hours I sit there rocking back and forth with Padfoot as he slowly calms down, moaning with a wordless pain. And I don't care about trying to be the strong one.

For once, it feels good not to care. 

Is this how you felt, Harry? I didn't think I'd ever understand why. But maybe... you were tired of caring. And it was so unkind of us all to expect you to. We worshipped you, yet we cursed you with expectations that no one, much less a child, should bear...

It's time you had your rights. It's time that you didn't have to care anymore.

Rest, Harry. Hug Lily, laugh with James, and care for nothing else.

****

I promise you that  
Promise you that  
Promise you that  
You'll be blessed

THE END.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Phew - Finally that chapter is done!

In case you didn't guess, the box of things that Remus is putting away is the box of Harry's things that was taken away from Hogwarts in Neville's chapter.


	12. How Does Your Garden Grow?

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 

Warnings: See previous chapters. (If you haven't read previous chapters, what are you doing here?)

Narrator: Professor Sprout.

Author's Notes - Since JKR still hasn't given us a first name for Professor Sprout, and I don't know if Order Of The Phoenix fixes that omission, I'm using the name Rosemary for her. 

This chapter is dedicated to calliope14, because she knows exactly what it is like to lose a student to suicide. Without her encouragement, input and beta, it could not have been written.

Rosemary: An aromatic European shrub, _Rosmarinus officinalis_, widely cultivated for its grey-green evergreen leaves. (Earlier called _rosmarine_, from Latin _ros_ 'dew' and _marinus_ 'marine'.) It is the traditional flower of remembrance. 

*******************************

Silence.

If I were a less sensible person, I may have thought of it as 'dead silence'.

In truth, it almost is. Aside from a shuffle of paper here, a sip of tea taken there, the staffroom is quiet - unnaturally so. Not a single person speaks. 

Who would dare to speak, when Minerva just stepped into the room? Even Severus holds his tongue. 

Not that we had spoken much more before. The babble of disbelief and horror that rose from our throats when we found out is gone, replaced by a horrid, self-questioning disquiet.

__

How did we miss this?

__

What pushed him over the edge?

__

Was it something **I** did?

"... And the Herbology O.W.Ls and N.E.W.Ts? Are they progressing on schedule?"

"Yes, Minerva. The results for all years, especially the seventh years and ...the fifth years, will be ready on time. There's just the end-of-term classes to go now."

"Very good, Rosemary. Now, I only need to collect the results from Sybill... if I can disrupt her terribly busy schedule of inhaling that wretched incense of hers..."

A flash of annoyance passes through me. **I** provide the herbs for all of Sybill's incense sticks. Granted, I wouldn't choose those fragrances for the world - they may be 'conducive to the Inner Eye' but they're a disaster on the human ability to concentrate - but they're far from hallucinogenic, and Minerva well knows it. As scatterbrained and, well, annoying as I find Sybill, she'd never intentionally harm a student, and nor would I allow it. She asked me only for things that were safe, if slightly soporific. 

Of course, there's always been a bit of a war between those two... Heaven help Sybill if she says anything more about her predictions regarding poor Harry in Minerva's hearing. 

Not that it would make her particularly popular with anyone right now. Especially not the - oh Merlin, what's she telling the _students_? 

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Good morning class!"

"Good morning, Professor Sprout," comes back the automatic chant. But you can see the underlying thought - "What's GOOD about it?" I wish I could tell them. Frankly, I can't see much good in it myself. 

"This morning we'll be working with Gillyweed -" I can see Miss Granger flinch as if she's been struck before she regains her composure, while the rest of the class glances at each other uneasily, and young Ronald Weasley has a knowing smile of memory playing about his lips. When will that boy realise? Minerva had best do something before we lose more Gryffindors than just Harry Potter... 

"-Can anyone tell me the properties of Gillyweed?" Usually Neville Longbottom or Hermione Granger are the only two who have done enough preparation beforehand to be able to answer my questions, but this time Neville's attention is carefully focussed on Hermione, whose hand stays down before reluctantly creeping up to take its expected place. _Poor child._ "Yes, Miss Granger?"

Eyes fixed on the benchtop, she states flatly, "Gillyweed is native to the Mediterranean Sea. It causes those who consume it to temporarily grow gills, so that they may be able to breathe underwater for a limited length of time." She's only given me part of the answer - but she doesn't care. Why on earth would she care about Gillyweed right now? I don't care, and I'm the one asking the question. Why am I asking any of them this? Why am I making them work in this hot greenhouse instead of sitting them down outside in the sun under a shady tree and let them cope, as they need to? What good is the curriculum to them right now? 

"It makes you grow webs on your hands and feet, too, along with the gills - so you can swim better, I guess." Well, now. That has to be the first time Ronald has ever volunteered information in my class. Pity this has become a familiar scene - everyone staring at him, while he stares back. "What? I'm right, aren't I? You can ask Harry yourselves, if you don't believe me."

__

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. "Thank you - Five points each, Miss Granger, Mister Weasley." If I have to grab Minerva by the ear, I will, I swear, if that's what it takes to get her to _DO_ something about that poor boy. "Now, the Gillyweed has arrived fresh from the Mediterranean last week. I have enough Gillyweed for everyone, so everyone take a container - careful, don't spill, that's Mediterranean seawater - and we can begin." Once everyone has their trays full of briny water and Gillyweed, I spend the rest of the lesson standing in front of the desk where the trays were stacked, blocking the tray that's left over from view. Damn me for efficiently ordering my batches of plants months in advance. 

It's ridiculous in any case. Why try to block their view? They all know there's one left. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

I feel a horrible, guilty sense of relief when I watch the fifth-year Gryffindors leave. It's hard enough dealing with my own sadness; worse to deal with those of my students and my House - but those who lived with him, slept in a dorm with him, ate meals with him, laughed and cried with him - it's so hard to look in their faces and see their eyes. And it seems impossible that I be expected to try and stick to the curriculum rather than reach out and embrace them all. 

It seemed impossible this time last year, too. Ridiculous. Cruel. But the Headmaster decreed that it would be best if at least one thing in the children's lives continued as unchanged as we could possibly make it. 

I can see the sense in it, yet so much within me shouts out against it, against - everything about this. 

All the teachers are. I see them express it in their own ways. 

Filius - well, Filius has always been an incredibly sensitive little man. As if the fates decreed that his tiny stature must be balanced with a large heart in exchange. He's taken this terribly hard. As a human, I can look back and see a fellow creature in pain, but at the time I could only see a young man who seemed angry at everything for no reason, a student who I hated to discipline, but had to for his own good. And I did, several times. Filius took points from young Harry only once, and kept him after class for a few gentle words, and yet he wrings his hands, constantly wondering if there was something he said and should not have, or should have said and did not. 

Sybill has disappeared up into her tower, much as usual. I'm not sure if she quite understands how to cope with this. Predictions of doom and gloom are her forte, but real death is another thing entirely. In fact, I've never thought she knew much about social interaction in general. She certainly knows how to put her foot in it, regardless of the subject. 

Hagrid - oh, Hagrid. He has been here longer than any of us, save Albus and Minerva - and even Minerva was a student when he entered his first year here. We all know him, have seen him working cheerfully on the grounds for many, many years. He is almost as much a part of Hogwarts as Albus Dumbledore is. Which makes it doubly heartbreaking that he should be so hurt now. That big bear of a man is like a mother cat desperately searching for her lost kittens, knowing the search is futile. 

Severus takes it out on the students, as he always has done since he was a student himself, and most likely always will. I've never seen him quite like this though - never quite this anger, quite this vicious, quite this... helpless. Lost. Of course he hates it. I think he's managed to give about twelve of my Hufflepuffs detentions in the past week for the most trivial of things. 

And of course there's Minerva. The teaching staff are all dancing around her the same way the students are dancing around Ronald Weasley. Minerva...

But I have a detention to supervise. Filch may have agreed to come back after much persuasion from Albus - bless that man's heart - but even he can't supervise all the students who are on detention tonight. Good thing that Greenhouse Two is in need of some work...

~*~*~*~*~*~

As it turns out, I've been assigned second-years Dennis Creevey and Natalie MacDonald - of course the Gryffindors get the brunt of Severus' ire - and fifth-year Ernie Macmillan, one of my own. 

Ernie's always been a little bit of a problem for me, I must say. Not a problem exactly, but... how best to put this... he has a tendency to try and take control of any group he's in and make his opinions known. He became the leader of the Hufflepuffs in his year almost by default - none of the others were going to stand up against him, particularly the Muggle-borns who didn't know as much about our world as he did. The main problem this presents is that he is not what one would consider a good leader for other children to follow - he judges too easily and too harshly, and as the one with the 'sway', he holds too much power in well-meaning but entirely reckless hands. I thought he'd grow out of it, but I'm honestly not sure what to do with him. Justin Finch-Fletchley still regards his word as law, and many of the others in my house simply don't have the energy to argue with him - they'd rather spend their time on something a little more productive.

Of course, once Cedric had started tutoring him in the middle of his third year, he'd calmed down, improved a great deal. The leader had found someone who showed him how to lead, someone who let him follow once in a while. Of course, Ernie being Ernie, he took this to the same extreme as he did in leadership, seeming to regard Cedric as a mentor, big brother and column of support all in one.

Fate can be very cruel.

Then again, so can Ernie - my plants were not meant to be pruned so viciously! And young Miss MacDonald is having to duck his shears or risk losing a sizeable chunk of her hair. With a sigh, I bring him over to the other side of the greenhouse and have him get to work filling up pots with loosely packed soil, ready to receive their new inhabitants. He can't do much damage with the careful movements and bare hands that this activity requires. 

The younger ones seem distinctly relieved that Ernie is now far away from them, and maybe I can get in a quiet word with him for a moment. Because if I know him, he'll want to say something. And whatever it is he wants to say, he won't wait very long, so probably around...

"Professor Sprout?"

...now. "Yes, Ernie?" 

Pause. "Did you take Divination at school?"

Well now. That wasn't what I expected. "Yes Ernie, I did. I took it for my O.W.Ls, though I dropped it after that in order to concentrate on Herbology and Charms. Why?"

"Oh. It's just - I don't take it. I was thinking that maybe I should have. Then maybe-" 

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe I could have warned Cedric about whatever was going to happen. Maybe I could have told him how Potter got his name in the Goblet - he was curious about that for a little while, then he seemed to decide that he hadn't. I don't get it. Maybe I could have stopped it. My great-great-grandfather was a Seer, so it might've been in me too."

"Perhaps. But there are a lot of people in the Wizarding World who have the Sight, and none of them sent any letters to the headmaster last year warning him, did they? The Sight isn't a guarantee that you'll be able to stop all the bad things from happening. No magical talent is."

"Hmm. Potter defeated the Dark Lord when he was a baby. Why couldn't he do it when Cedric was in danger? I asked him that, you know."

__

Oh dear. "Did you?"

"Yup. I asked him if he hid behind Cedric this time, instead of his mum."

Where's Albus when you need him?! I'm not suited for this confessional business, I'm a Herbologist! "I... see. Ernie, that was-"

"A rotten thing to say. I know." Scrubbing at his face with a dirty hand, and I'm sure Poppy will have my hide if he gets an infection in his eyes, but a bit of good clean soil never hurt anyone. Nor did a bit of good clean guilt, if you ask me. 

"I didn't actually think he did hide - I just wanted to hurt his feelings, because he lived and Cedric didn't, and I thought that was so unfair, and he should hurt as much as _WE_ did, you know?"

"He was already hurting, Ernie. He saw Cedric die, and believe me, there's nothing worse than seeing someone die and not be able to do anything about it. I know - I watched my cousin die when You-Know-Who was first taking over back before you were born. There's hardly a teacher on the staff who didn't lose someone, and a lot of the students lost family and friends of the family as well."

"Oh." Awkwardly he rubs at his forehead. "You know, for a long time I was angry that Cedric was dead but he still got to be alive. But now, I'm angry with him for being dead. And I don't know why I'm angry, because I said what I said and everything." He looks miserable. "I mean, it was months ago, but you don't think that, you know... because of what I said...?"

And how do I answer that? "Ernie, I think everyone in the school, teachers and students alike, are going through the past year and asking themselves the same question. You're not alone in this." 

He nods, and goes back to filling the pots. At least that has a beginning, a middle, a conclusion. An answer. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Faces dance in my head as I find myself marching towards the staff room. Ronald Weasley's abnormal *normality* in all the tumult, his refuge in lack of acceptance. Hermione Granger's thin face, haunted eyes. Neville Longbottom's concerned, watchful gaze. Ernie's lost expression of a leader who loses his way. And guilt, guilt, everywhere, choking the school, choking all of us. 

Even the Headmaster who now talks to Minerva, discussing things that matter not at all anymore. 

How can Mister Weasley be expected to move on if his own Head of House is locked up and distant from those who need her? 

"Minerva?"

She doesn't bother looking up from her work, parchment stacked high around her. "What is it, Rosemary? I'm rather busy."

"No, you're not. You're creating a workload for yourself so that you don't have to think about it."

She stops writing. Her knuckles whiten on her quill. "I beg your pardon?" she asks in one of the iciest tones I've ever heard from her. From across the room I can see Severus staring at me as though I've grown another head, and Filius is backing off. Albus merely steps aside. I think he well knows what I'm going to do.

"I'm quite sure you heard what I said, Minerva - or shall I add deafness to your list of failures as well as blindness?" 

"Rosemary!" Oh, for the love of - Filius, put your wand away. Despite what you may think, that won't be needed here. 

"How _dare_-"

"How dare I, Minerva? No, how dare _you_. How dare you close up and ignore your House when they look to you for guidance? How dare you turn your face away when you see Mister Weasley so lost? How dare you not be there for them? It's the least you could do, when you clearly weren't there for-"

"SHUT UP! You don't know anything about it!" 

"I know plenty about it! There isn't a bloody day that I don't wish I could congratulate Cedric once more on doing Hufflepuff proud - just as there isn't a day now that I don't wish I could hug Harry Potter like the mother he wanted to have! Minerva, _I LOST ONE OF MY BOYS TOO!_"

And the great Gryffindor lioness slowly collapses under the weight of her walls. I lied, of course - Minerva _does_ care about Mister Weasley, is terrified for him. She cares so much for her pride of young cubs, yet she cannot show it to save her life. Albus jumps forward to grab her shoulders as she crumbles, firmly and silently directing her to a seat in front of the fire, where she can cry. 

And cry she does - wailing, choking sobs that seem as though they may tear her apart, so strong are they. Filius pats her hand gently as I fetch a cup of tea. "Minerva, we've all lost children at some stage. It never gets any easier. But still -"

"n- no... you - don't - understand..." she chokes out.

"We understand, Minerva. We all feel we should have known. Perhaps we should have. Perhaps there was no way to know. But that doesn't stop the way we feel." Filius is in tears just seeing her cry - I'm rather moist around my eyes, myself. Wipe them carefully with my handkerchief. Won't do for Minerva to find salt in her tea, after all. 

A hand takes the saucer before I can pick it up, and I look into Severus' face. He says nothing, but nods once, simply. A silent 'well done'.

That ridiculous man. He knows Minerva too well, knows Filius too well. He would have tried this himself if I had not done it, and gotten himself hexed six ways to Doomsday for his efforts, and he'd have known that, too. And the Sorting Hat placed him in Slytherin. He should have been a Hufflepuff.

Not that I'd ever tell him so. He'd be mortally offended. No idea why. 

"In my many years as a teacher and as headmaster, I've seen several children fall before their time - but never before a suicide." This is the first time I've ever seen Albus look his age. In a way, it's strangely comforting, that even Albus is trapped at our level - guilty, afraid, confused, grieving. 

And now there's naught to do but sit with Minerva, and let her cry, and remember all our children that we've lost. 

END.

~*~*~*~*~*~

More Author's Notes: Okay. So this is the last chapter that will be published before Order Of The Phoenix comes out, so please allow for some time after the book's release for me to add any information on the characters into future chapters. Remember, this is definitely an alternate fifth-year story. 


End file.
